It Is What It Is 😌

The elevator ascends in silence, opening its doors directly onto the secured top floor of the hospital.

The armed D-Company guards stand outside the private wing, their hands hovering near their holsters. The moment their eyes lock onto her, they immediately recognize the primary caretaker and step aside, clearing her path. Two senior medical figures emerge hastily from the glass doors of the intensive unit—the older cardiologist whose tag reads “Mohammed Sumbul,” and the chief neurologist, “Abdal Jaleel Sisha.”

“Thank God you're here,” Dr. Sumbul rasps, his face pale with professional panic. “We’ve run the initial scans, but the collapse is unprecedented. The layout doesn't match a standard stroke template. The cerebral cortex is completely locked down, yet the heart rate is spiking!” He aggressively keys the interface of his tablet, showing her the illuminated slides of the brain scans.

“We knew he'd been getting weaker each day,” Dr. Sisha cuts in, his voice trembling under the weight of the syndicate's unwritten threat. “Lekin achanak kaise...”

[“But how did this happen so suddenly...”]

Sanaz lets out a slow sigh. Without a hint of hesitation, she reaches into her leather bag and hands them a thick folder of medical reports—records she had been quietly compiling and manipulating for the past three years for this exact day.

“The stress from the recent regional disruptions must have triggered a latent cellular collapse,” she explains smoothly as the doctors scan the forged data. “Pehle se hi kamzor dil tha unka.”

[“His heart was already weak to begin with.”]

Behind her, Rizwan stands like a silent shadow against the white hospital wall, his dark eyes scanning the corridor, completely aware that the vultures are already circling the dying king's room.

नाल रांझे जोगी दे तैनूँ जोगन होना पै जाऊँ गा।

[“Along with Ranjha the ascetic, you too will have to become an ascetic.”]

The two senior medical specialists meticulously review the documents, scanning every timeline and detail. The data mostly suggests accelerated aging, weaker movements, and a progressive speech impediment that persisted despite his heavy medication. To them, it looks like a chronic degradation that has been quietly going on for decades; it had simply never gotten this catastrophic.

They conclude that Bade Sahab is finally saying his goodbye to the empire.

Sanaz quietly slips past the armed guards, her shoes making no sound against the private suite's floor. On the clinical mattress, Dawood’s eyes immediately lock onto her, his heart rate monitor executing a sudden sequence of rising spikes.

He strains with every ounce of his remaining willpower to lift a single finger, but his nervous system is completely offline. His frantic breath heavily fogs the inside of the transparent plastic oxygen mask, his bloodshot eyes wide with pure terror.

“Hum puri koshish kar rahe hain, Bade Sahab. Aap fikr matt kijiye, aapki takleefon ko jald hi khatam kar diya jayega,” she mutters smoothly. [“We are trying our best, Big Boss. Do not worry, your suffering will be ended very soon.”]

मै इश्क़ दे अलैन ज़ख़्मा दे ख़ुद हस हस के मुँह सींन लांगी,

जे जार मेरा मै नूँ ज़हर ज़हर ज़हर—

[“I will willingly, smilingly sew the wounds of love with my own hands, Even if my beloved gives me poison, poison, poison—”]

The heavy wooden door clicks open. The senior doctor emerges from the tech station and quickly pulls Sanaz into a quiet, shadowed corner of the intensive room. “Humne sab kuch check kar liya. Agar yeh zinda nahi bache toh hum sab...” they whisper frantically.

[“We have checked everything. If he doesn't survive, all of us...”]

“Kya hoga, doctor Sahab?”

[“What will happen, doctor?”]

A voice.

“Aap ne yahan aane ki takleef ki...” the two medical men stutter, immediately bowing their heads in deep, subservient respect.

[“You took the trouble to come here...”]

“Kaise nahi aati? Abbu hain mere.”

[“How could I not come? He is my father.”]

Sanaz gulps, a rare drop of cold adrenaline hitting her internal system as her posture instantly straightens.

I’m a king, but I’m far from a saint.

They call me a bad man, that’s a fcking good thing.

Mama said, swing back when another man swings.

So I make my mama proud and make the hits rain.

“Yeh kon hai? Pehle kabhi nahi dekha,” the heiress demands, her sharp gaze cutting through the air as she steps closer. Standing next to the generational authority radiating from the woman, Sanaz physically feels smaller, the space in the room tightening.

[“Who is this? I've never seen her before.”]

“Sanaz Siddiqui. General physician hai Bade Sahab ki,” Dr. Sumbul quickly introduces, trying to smooth over the security hierarchy.

[“Sanaz Siddiqui. She is the Big Boss's general physician.”]

“Naya doctor rakh liya aur mujhe khabar tak nahi di?”

[“A new doctor was hired and I wasn't even informed?”]

“Di hogi. Shayad aapne dhyaan nahi diya,” Sanaz answers evenly.

[“It must have been given. Perhaps you didn't pay attention.”]

“Shayad,” the older woman replies, her eyes narrowing to needles as she studies Sanaz's face. “Jaanti ho mujhe?”

[“Perhaps. Do you know me?”]

Heavy is the head,

Heavy is the head,

It’s a blessing and a curse.

Sanaz remains entirely silent.

“MARUKH. MARUKH IBRAHIM.”

“Salamwalaikum, baaji,” Sanaz responds, extending the respectful greeting to an elderly figure.

[“Peace be upon you, elder sister.”]

A sharp shake of a manicured finger cuts her off instantly. “Marukh sahiba.”

Heavy is the head,

Heavy is the head,

Hit ‘em where it hurts.

Sanaz gives a slow nod, “Yaad rahega.”

[“I will remember that.”]

“Aapse milkar achcha laga, Siddiqui Sahiba,” Marukh states, her voice dripping with an implicit warning. “Agar izzat ho toh main akele mein mil sakti hoon?”

[“It was good to meet you, Miss Siddiqui. If I may have the honor, could I meet him alone?”]

The doctors and guards immediately evacuate the perimeter, bowing out in silence. Sanaz steps back through the threshold, the heavy door clicking shut behind her, sealing the daughter of the cartel inside with the silent, dying king.

The board has completely flipped. The bloodline has arrived.

DHU! RAN! DHAR!

After a few minutes of suffocating silence, the heavy wooden door swings inward. Marukh steps out into the corridor layout, her sharp eyes immediately tracking Sanaz.

“Itne kareeb thi unke, aisi halat dekh kar bata sakti hain ki unhe humse kuch kehna hai.”

[“You were so close to him, looking at this condition you can tell that he wants to say something to us.”]

Sanaz slowly turns her gaze back, looking through the tiny, clear glass frame of the ICU door. Inside, the shadow of the man who once held the entire city sits locked in a living tomb.

“Maut ka darr hai shayad,” Sanaz responds. “Itne dino se jiske naam se sabki rooh kaamp jaati thi aaj woh hil tak nahi paa raha hai. Iss baat ka afsos mujhe zindagi bhar rahega. Main apni taraf se unke sabhi logo se maafi maangna chahungi.”

[“Perhaps it's the fear of death. The one whose name made everyone's soul tremble for so long can't even move today. I will regret this for the rest of my life. On my part, I would like to apologize to all of his people.”]

Marukh steps a fraction closer, her heavy gold jewelry clinking softly in the quiet hallway. “Koi naaraz nahi hoga tumse. Ek na ek din sabko jaana hi hai.”

[“No one will be angry with you. Everyone has to go one day.”]

“Woh kaha karte the unhen mujh mein aap dikhti hain,” Sanaz whispers smoothly, laying down her psychological camouflage. “Beta maante the aapko.”

[“He used to say he saw you in me. He considered you his son.”]

Marukh tilts her head slightly, her gaze narrowing. “Ek doctor mein unhen apni beti dikhti thi...?” she mutters under her breath.

[“He saw his daughter in a doctor...?”]

Sensing the shift in the room's pressure Sanaz immediately clears her throat, her eyes darting across the corridor. “Baaki sab kahan hai...?”

[“Where is everyone else...?”]

“Aajayenge, kal subah tak,” Marukh replies flatly.

[“They'll be here, by tomorrow morning.”]

“Theek hai fir. Main chalti hoon,” Sanaz nods, adjusting her leather bag over her white coat. “Hamza Sahab ki tabyet bohot kharab hai.”

[“Alright then. I'm leaving. Hamza Sahab's health is very bad.”]

Without waiting for a dismissal, she turns on her heel and walks away quickly down the corridor, Rizwan instantly falling into step as her silent, armed shield. They press the elevator button, their systems completely on high alert.

They practically sprint to the vehicle, diving into the seats before Rizwan slams his foot onto the accelerator, tearing away from the South City Hospital curb.

“Yeh Marukh mujhe theek nahi lag rahi,” Sanaz mutters, her heart hammering against her ribs as she reaches for a bottle and gulps down some water to clear the dryness in her throat.

[“This Marukh doesn't feel right to me.”]

“Yeh aunty itni khatarnak kyun dikhti hai?” Rizwan replies, trying to cut through the suffocating tension in the car.

[“Why does this aunty look so dangerous?”]

She groans, her eyes wide with lingering adrenaline. “Mazak mat karo. Sach mein, dekha na kaise dekh rahi thi mujhe? Upar se Hamza bol raha tha wapas chalte hain.”

[“Don't joke. Seriously, did you see how she was looking at some phantom variable? On top of that, Hamza was saying let's go back.”]

Rizwan sighs, a massive yawn breaking through his jaw. He hasn't slept in a full forty-eight hours, caught in a brutal cycle of constantly driving, fighting at the industrial yard, and then driving the long night all over again. “Jo bhi ho zevar bade bade pehenti hai.”

[“Whatever it is, she wears massive jewelry.”]

Sanaz aggressively tears off her white medical coat, throwing it onto the back seat layout. “Use mere baare mein zarur pata hoga. Lekin dhyaan nahi diya. Mujhe toh lagta hai Dawood ke pehle doctor ko inhone hi marwaya tha.”

[“She definitely must know about me. But she didn't pay attention before. I actually think she was the one who had Dawood's previous doctor killed.”]

Screeech—!

Rizwan hits the break hard, the tyres groaning against the asphalt as he cuts a sharp look at her from the driver’s seat. “Aur Iqbal ne aapko isiliye chuna taaki aapki bali chadhe? Tauba tauba, 'hamsheera' bolkar yeh sab kiya.”

[“And Iqbal chose you just so you could be sacrificed? My god, he did all this while calling you 'sister'.”]

She huffs. “Koi saga nahi hai yahan.”

[“No one is your own here.”]

“Main saga hoon na.”

[“I'm yours.”]

She rolls her eyes at his classic brotherly defense routine.

“Theek hai, lekin yeh uss doctor ko kyun marwayegi? Baap ke paison ke liye?” Rizwan asks, getting the SUV back into motion.

[“Fine, but why would she have that doctor killed? For her father's money?”]

“Mujhe nahi lagta woh yahan Dawood ke liye aayi hai,” Sanaz mutters darkly, her mind rapidly pieceing together. “Maine suna hai woh D-company ki maalkin banna chahti thi, lekin Dawood ne uski shaadi karakar Dubai bhej diya. Aur baad mein pachhtaya kyunki Moin, uska ladka maulvi ban gaya, baaki dusre aulaadon ki himmat nahi hui yeh sab karne ki.”

[“I don't think she came here for Dawood. I've heard she wanted to become the boss of D-Company, but Dawood got her married off and sent her to Dubai. And later he regretted it because Moin, his son, became a cleric, and the rest of his children didn't have the guts to run this empire.”]

“Matlab jo bhi hoga, aaj hoga. Kal jitne bhi log aayenge, sabko ek alag hi kahani sunayi jayegi,” Rizwan mutters.

[“Meaning whatever happens, happens today. Tomorrow, whatever people arrive, they will be told a completely different story.”]

“Jameel Sahab ko shyam tak Clifton pohonchne bolo. Hum wapas nahi jaa sakte. Woh karenge aage ki reporting. Aur yeh sab Hamza ko bhi batana hai,” Sanaz commands rapidly. She pulls out her clean burner device, her fingers flying across the screen as she dials the safehouse line.

[“Tell Jameel Sahab to reach Clifton by evening. We can't go back. He will handle the further reporting. And all of this needs to be told to Hamza too.”]

The call connects, and he picks it up almost immediately. But before he can speak, she cuts in with high-alert urgency. “Hamza, bohot zaruri baat karni hai, hello? Tum ghar pe nahi ho?”

[“Hamza, I need to tell you something very important, hello? You aren't at the house?”]

A heavy, broken sigh rattles through the speaker, followed by the distant sound of quiet rustling. “Iqbal ke ghar pe hoon... Yahan... sab khatam hogaya hai.”

[“I'm at Iqbal's house... Here... everything is finished.”]

Sanaz’s brows pull together. “Kya bol rahe ho? Samajh nahi aa raha.”

[“What are you saying? I don't understand.”]

“Jahangir mar gaya,” Hamza mutters, his raw voice devoid of any agent armor. “Aaj subah Safiya ne khabar di. Basheer aur uske alawa koi nahi hai Safeena ka dhyaan rakhne wala.”

[“Jahangir is dead. Safiya gave the news this morning. There is no one besides Basheer and her to take care of Safeena.”]

The air inside the moving SUV completely freezes. Sanaz goes dead silent as she looks over at Rizwan. He catches her expression.

Bloodlines, cartels, and border runs fade against the weight of human wreckage.

“Hum... thodi der mein aa rahe hain,” she says softly into the line. [“We... are coming in a little while.”]

The vehicle cuts its engine, halting heavily outside Iqbal's house. Sanaz and Rizwan step out, pushing past the lower gates and rapidly climbing the narrow flight of stairs to the upper quarters.

Hamza is slumped low on the worn fabric of the sofa, his frame carrying the heavy physical toll as he cradles little five-year-old Safeena tightly against his chest.

In the background kitchen, Safiya is preparing tea, her movements jerky and forced, while old Basheer crouches low, sweeping a wet cloth across the floorboards.

“Sanaz Sahiba, aap aa gayi... Dekhiye na kya hogaya hai,*” Safiya mutters the moment she tracks their entrance, her voice breaking as her breath hitches sharply. “Mera jitna bhi ghar-baar chalta tha sirf Iqbal bhai ki badaulat chalta tha. Yahan par sirf ek hafte ka ration hai, aur koi bhi nahi hai yahan. Kaise kya karun? Ek chhoti bachchi bhi hai saath mein.”

[“Miss Sanaz, you've arrived... Look what has happened. My entire household ran solely because of brother Iqbal. There is only a week's worth of rations here, and there is no one else left. How do I manage? There is a small child with us too.”]

They step deeper into the living room. Basheer pauses his sweeping, looking up with heavy eyes. “Main toh kahin aur kaam dhundh lunga, lekin Iqbal bhai ki tarah kaise paalunga inhe?”

[“I will find work somewhere else, but how will I sustain them like brother Iqbal did?”]

In the corner of the room, the empty wheelchair of the murdered Jahangir sits. On the mantlepiece stands a framed portrait of Major Iqbal alongside his deceased wife and mother—a chilling visual reminder that his entire bloodline has been utterly erased from the earth, leaving behind only his innocent five-year-old daughter who lives with Down syndrome.

“Aap... aap fikr matt kijiye. Hum karenge kuch,” Sanaz says softly.

She steps forward, keeping a reassuring, firm hand on Safiya’s trembling shoulder before crossing the floor to sit directly next to Hamza. He had managed to change back into his usual dark kurta before they arrived, masking the medical gauze so he doesn't look visibly injured to the household staff.

[“Don't... don't worry. We will do something.”]

Sanaz leans slightly toward the child, her voice dropping into a gentle cadence. “Safeena...?”

“Doktor...” the little girl mutters instantly, her face lighting up as she makes eager, grabby arms toward her favorite visitor. Sanaz reaches out and smoothly takes her from Hamza’s grip, making the child sit comfortably on her lap. “Aap theek ho? Khana khaya?”

[“Are you okay? Did you eat?”]

The girl nods quickly, her small fingers twisting the fabric of Sanaz’s kurti. “Sab kuch... hogaya,” she says, splaying her small arms wide to describe the sudden emptiness of her world. “Lekin abbu.. kahan?”

[“Everything... is gone. But where is father?”]

“Woh aajayenge,” Sanaz replies immediately. Yet internally, a suffocating wave of pure anger and profound sadness twists her chest—furious at Iqbal for the monstrous double-life that brought this ruin upon his own blood, and devastated for the child left in the wake of the fire.

[“He will come.”]

Hamza remains entirely motionless, his eyes staring blankly at the empty space on the floorboards as Safiya places the hot teacups on the table. The silence stretching from his frame is deafening. He had physically butchered the girl’s father in an industrial train yard just twenty-four hours ago. What words are left for a phantom asset to say in a room full of the dead man's family?

Safeena looks up at Sanaz, her innocent routine kicking back in. “Aaj.. checkup?” she asks, extending her small arm forward just as she always did whenever Sanaz used to visit to take blood samples.

[“Today... checkup?”]

Sanaz gently shakes her head, carefully lowering the child's arm. “Baad mein,” she mutters under her breath, her eyes dropping.

[“Later.”]

The little girl suddenly jumps off Sanaz's lap, her small feet pattering across the floor as she runs to her bedroom. A moment later, she returns, proudly holding a drawing book to show them her latest sketch. Sanaz looks down at the page.

It features a smiling man drawn with a long beard colored in green, a small girl figure sketched in pink, a woman in yellow, and another tall man... drawn entirely in red. There is no black, crippled figure representing the grandfather this time.

Safeena points her small index finger at each figure in sequence. “Abbu, main, doktor...”

[“Father, me, doctor...”]

“Aur yeh kon?” Sanaz questions gently, pointing at the red figure.

[“And who is this?”]

“Hanza.”

That single, mispronounced word cuts like a blade straight through the man’s throat. The heavy ache grid locks his jaw. Hamza slowly forces his eyes away from the floor, swallowing down the immense lump of grief as a tiny, incredibly fragile smile touches his lips.

“Aakhir kaar mujhe pehchan hi liya,” he whispers roughly.

[“You finally recognized me after all.”]

Safeena looks past them, her wide, innocent eyes pointing directly at the iron cage near the window layout. Inside the bars, there is only one parrot sitting quietly on the wooden perch.

“Dusra meethu kahan gaya..?” she questions, her small face scrunching in confusion.

[“Where did the other Meethu go..?”]

“Udd gaya shayad,” Sanaz mutters softly, her chest tightening as she remembers the bickering pair.

[“Maybe it flew away.”]

“Lekin meethu love safeena... Kyun..? Gaya?”

[“But Meethu loves Safeena... Why..? Did it leave?”]

“Azad hogaya,” Sanaz says, her fingers gently brushing a stray lock of hair behind the little girl's ear. “Jab kisise pyaar karte hain toh unki azadi chahte hain. Haina?”

[“It became free. When we love someone, we want their freedom. Right?”]

The child doesn't even begin to comprehend the deep structural implications of those words, but she gives a small, compliant nod anyway. Near the glass pane, the solitary green parrot ducks its head low against the perch, chattering a repetitive, lonely line into the quiet room: “Meethu bolo safeena...”

“Chai thandi ho jayegi,” Safiya interrupts, her voice hollow as she sets the hot teacups on the table.

[“The tea will get cold.”]

They lift the cups, the warmth doing nothing to clear the freezing reality hanging over their heads. Sanaz takes a slow sip before looking up at the househelp. “Hum... Jameel Sahab se baat karte hain. Unke ghar nahi toh mere ghar aap dono kaam kar sakte hain.”

[“We... will speak to Mr. Jameel. If not at his house, you both can work at my house.”]

“Badi meherbani hogi, doctor sahiba,” Safiya mutters, wiping her face with the corner of her dupatta.

[“It will be a great favor, doctor.”]

Hamza clears his throat as he leans forward from the sofa. He looks directly at the little girl. “Safeena... Aapko khilone pasand hain na? Jameel Sahab ke ghar mein itne bade khilaune hain,” he stretches his long arms wide, forcing a soft, patient cadence into his tone. “Jab tak abbu nahi aate waha jana chahogi? Safiya bhi hogi.”

[“Safeena... You like toys, right? There are such big toys at Mr. Jameel's house. Until father returns, would you like to go there? Safiya will be there too.”]

The girl nods eagerly at the promise of new toys. Watching the interaction, old Basheer pauses, letting out a heavy, emotional sigh. “Ab toh aap hi inke maayi-baap ho.”

[“Now you two are her only parents.”]

“Nahi!” Safeena interjects instantly, shaking her head with fierce, childlike stubbornness. “Ammi, abbu,” she points her small finger firmly at the portrait of Major Iqbal and his late wife. Then, shifting her hand, she points directly at Sanaz and Hamza. “Dost.”

[“No! Mother, father. Friends.”]

That distinction genuinely cracks through their armor, forcing a tiny, authentic smile onto both Hamza and Sanaz's faces. Even after everything, she kept their slots clean.

Minutes later, they finalise the immediate safehouse clearance. They move downstairs to the vehicles parked in the driveway layout. Hamza and Sanaz slide into his personal car—the same one he had driven over in a panic while bleeding out—with little Safeena already fast asleep across the back seat, her drawing book tucked safely beside her, and the parrot cage secured carefully underneath.

Before stepping into the lead SUV where Rizwan is waiting at the steering wheel to drive them, Safiya turns back to look at the couple through the car window. Her eyes are misty with a heavy, tragic reverence.

“Iqbal bhai sahi kehte the, aap dono Pakistan mein mohabbat ki misal banoge,” Safiya mutters under her breath, before she finally climbs into the passenger slot next to Basheer.

[“Brother Iqbal used to say it right, you two will become an emblem of love in Pakistan.”]

The engines roar to life. The two cars pull out of the residential sector, driving directly towards the massive JAMEEL JAMALI MANSION.

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Without a hint of panic, she picks up the phone from the bed. Instead of searching for a non-existent family record, her fingers swiftly dial Jameel Jamali’s encrypted number.

“Yeh lijiye,” she murmurs, stepping closer to the mattress as she holds the active speaker directly to his ear.

[“Here you go.”]

A heavy silence stretches across both sides of the line. The digital connection is wide open, but the mighty syndicate king cannot utter a single variable.

“Shayad aaj aapka mann nahi hai,” she notes softly, withdrawing the phone and smoothly cutting the call grid.

[“Perhaps you are not in the mood today.”]

Dawood’s head twitches with microscopic, agonizing effort. He fights to force his jaw open, trying desperately to unleash a roar that would bring the entire fortress of guards crashing through the doors.

But his tongue doesn't move.

It lies heavy and useless in his throat.

In that moment, the truth crashes into his fading consciousness.

The horrifying realization locks in: the woman he had chosen, the doctor he trusted implicitly, the girl he thought was acting as his loyal daughter, had been dismantling him from the inside out. She had been poisoning his biological system daily, little by little, through the very medicines meant to sustain his life.

And for the first time in his legendary, blood-soaked history, Dawood Ibrahim has pure fear in his eyes.

The digital screen of the heart monitor spikes erratically, the high-pitched alarms beep-beeping in a frantic pattern as his internal panic hits its threshold. Sanaz just stands there, her eyes completely unreadable as she stares down at the paralyzed titan.

“Aaram kijiye, Bade Sahab. Abhi bohot lamba safar tay karna hai aapko.”

[“Rest, Big Boss. You still have a very long journey to cover.”]

She adjusts his duvet, turns down the overhead lighting, and quietly walks out of the suite. The heavy wooden door clicks shut behind her, sealing the silent king inside his own living tomb.

Standing in the opulent, marble-lined hallway of the Clifton mansion, she smoothly locks her professional mask back into place. Two heavily armed guards shift their posture immediately, their eyes tracking her.

“He’s a little stressed,” she instructs the household staff standing by the corridor layout, her voice perfectly steady. “Don't disturb him.”

She moves stride down the sweeping marble staircase to the ground floor layout where Jameel Jamali is sitting, waiting in the silence of the living room. Without breaking pace, she signals him with a brief shift in her posture, and the two walk out together into the Karachi air, stepping toward his parked vehicle.

The moment the car doors slam shut, cutting off the ears of the external guards, Jameel immediately questions her, his brow furrowed with anxiety. “Bol kyun nahi raha tha woh?”

[“Why wasn’t he speaking?”]

“Paralyzed ho gaya hai shayad,” she mutters flatly, leaning her head against the passenger seat as she looks out at the iron gates. “Saalon ki poisoning ek baar bhaari pad rahi hai. Zyada din nahi bachega.”

[“He’s probably paralyzed. Years of poisoning are finally taking a heavy toll all at once. He doesn’t have many days left.”]

Reaching deep into her leather bag, she takes out another completely clean, secure burner phone. She keys in the encryption code and dials Hamza's terminal line.

The line connects instantly on the very first ring grid.

“Sanaz?” Hamza’s raw voice cuts through the speaker.

“Hamza...”

On the other end of the line, hundreds of miles away on an abandoned plastic chair, Hamza slowly closes his bloodied eyes, the thick smoke from his cigarette drifting through the air as he listens to the steady anchor of her voice.

“Kahan ho?”

[“Where are you?”]

“Jameel Sahab ke saath hoon. Kya hua?”

[“I’m with Jameel Sahab. What happened?”]

“Unhone voicemail kiya Dawood ko tumpar shaq hai,” he rasps out, his grip tightening against the cracked glass of his screen.

[“He left a voicemail saying Dawood suspects you.”]

Sanaz takes a long, deep breath, her eyes locking onto the dashboard, “Ab toh shaq nahi pura yakeen hai,” she says softly.

“Woh bol nahi paa raha, Hamza. No movements at all. Lekin fir bhi dar hai. Mujhe samajh nahi aa raha yahan rehna chahiye ya fir Hindustan chale jaana chahiye.”

[“Now it's not just suspicion, it's absolute certainty. He can't speak, Hamza. No movements at all. But there is still fear. I don't understand whether I should stay here or head back to India.”]

“Wapas chalte hain. Sab khatam hogaya hai yahan,” Hamza’s voice rasps heavily through the speaker. [“Let's go back. Everything is finished here.”]

Sanaz shakes her head firmly as she calculates the structural risks of an immediate, messy flight. “Dawood ki maut tak ruk jaate hain. Kya pata kisi din apna muh khol de. Uske bande zinda nahi chhorenge humein fir.”

[“Let's stay until Dawood's death. Who knows if one day he manages to open his mouth. His men won't leave us alive then.”]

A heavy silence stretches between the two lines as Hamza absorbs the weight of her words. He looks down at his shredded kurta and the deep, pulsing ache in his shoulder.

“Aakar baat karta hoon.”

[“I'll come and talk.”]

“Tum kahan ho? Aur Iqbal ka kya hua?” she asks.

[“Where are you? And what happened to Iqbal?”]

“Maar diya...” he mutters flatly, “Main kal subah tak wapas aata hoon. Lyari pohocho. Jameel Sahab, sab sambhal lijiyega.”

[“Killed him... I'll be back by tomorrow morning. Reach Lyari. Jameel Sahab, take care of everything.”]

Jameel Jamali, tracking the entire conversion from the driver's seat, leans closer to the speaker template, “Apna dhyaan rakh,” the older man says firmly. [“Take care of yourself.”]

Hamza stumbles his way back into Muridke's smoking perimeter, his heavy boots dragging through the dust. All around the compound, dead bodies lie scattered here and there.

The fighters of the Baloch United Force are already moving rapidly through the debris, clearing away any physical evidence or structural variables that might have revealed it was them behind the attack.

Shirani steps through the haze, his dark eyes taking in the destruction of the LeT mainframe. He walks up to the wounded agent, keeping a firm hand on Hamza's shoulder, and pats it with deep respect.

“Jo kaam Rehman aur Uzair nahi kar paaye woh tumne kar dikhaya. Balochistan tumhe asli Sher-E-Baloch ke naam se yaad rakhega. Ek jaabaz Sher jisne humare bachchon ki maut ka badla liya, Hamza Ali Mazari.”

[“The work that Rehman and Uzair couldn't do, you have shown by doing it. Balochistan will remember you by the name of the real Lion of Balochistan. A brave Lion who took revenge for the deaths of our children, Hamza Ali Mazari.”]

He raises Hamza's hands to his own eyes, blessing the asset with the highest honor of the wilderness. Hamza just huffs, his chest heaving as the massive adrenaline high finally begins to break down.

Under the dimming sun, he looks smaller and more fragile than ever. It was a strange, undeniable truth—a boy from Punjab had done more for the people of the valley than any real Baloch fighter ever could for them.

“Allah tumhari hifazat karenge,” Shirani says softly.

[“God will protect you.”]

Hamza reaches out, hugging the veteran commander back before the men finish the final cleanup operation.

Down at the main gate, Rizwan is waiting by the convoy truck. His brows pull tightly together, a look of sheer horror and relief crossing his features as he sees Hamza walking out of the smog, completely drenched from head to toe in dark, drying crimson blood.

“Bhai...” Rizwan’s voice cracks.

“Zinda hoon saale,” Hamza rasps through his split lip.

[“I'm alive, you bastard.”]

A rough chuckle breaks from Rizwan's throat, and the two brothers-in-arms pull each other into a crushing hug, completely uncaring about the blood, the soot, or the legalities of the world they were tearing down.

“Lyari wapas chalte hain,” Hamza commands, his hand gripping the truck door as his eyes lock onto the long highway road leading south. “Bohot kaam baaki hai.”

[“Let's go back to Lyari. There is still a lot of work left to do.”]

The interior of the heavy SUV is suffocating as they pull away from the burning industrial yard, the engine roaring against the dark horizon. With Rizwan handling the steering wheel, the crushing weight of physical exhaustion and survival relief finally crashes down on Hamza.

His systems completely drop, and he passes out cold right in the passenger seat.

When his eyes open again, it is already midnight.

The convoy of vehicles has pulled over, resting together near a secluded, local roadside Dhaba in the biting cold night air. Rizwan, tracking the states of all the fighters, quietly buys hot food for everyone. Instead of risking public exposure, he shares the meals directly inside the cars—because not a single one of them looks clean or good enough to sit down and dine in the open light.

Over the tiny, flickering cathode-ray TV mounted under the thatched roof of the Dhaba, a local news reporter’s voice cuts through the static:

“Pakistani rangers ne aakhir kar muridke based LeT terrorism camp ko tabah kar diya. Hamle mein ISI ke Major Iqbal, Sajid Mir aur LeT ke Azam Cheema bhi maare gaye. Awam yeh janna chahti hai ki kya aise dehshadgardon ke saath ISI officers ka bhi naam juda hai? Janne ke liye dekhte rahe Kal tak.”

[“Pakistani Rangers have finally destroyed the Muridke-based LeT terrorism camp. ISI's Major Iqbal, Sajid Mir, and LeT's Azam Cheema were also killed in the attack. The public wants to know if the names of ISI officers are also linked with such terrorists? To know, keep watching Kal Tak.”]

Hamza lets out a dry huff, a low chuckle escaping his throat as he leans his heavy head back against the seat structure.

“Chutiyap.”

[“Nonsense.”]

They eat their rations like that in the shadows. Hamza leans over the side mirror, attempting to wash the heavy crust of blood off his facial coordinates using a bottle of water. But the deep crimson has completely dried into his skin and beard now, frozen too hard by the night air to clean up without proper medical solvent. He just gives up, tossing the bottle aside.

They drive for another eight hours through the early morning fog before the wheels finally hit the familiar dirt roads of Lyari, pulling up to his secured bungalow.

The moment they step inside the safehouse perimeter, Hamza bypasses the debriefing room entirely. He walks directly toward Sanaz’s private quarters.

Inside, Sanaz is just getting ready for the day, stepping out fresh after a warm shower. The second her eyes lock onto the doorway, her breath hitches in pure horror.

The face she had memorized—the face she loved so deeply—is completely ruined. A terrifying canvas of deep, blackening lacerations, dried crimson crust, and hollow, bloodshot eyes.

Overcome by pure emotion, she instantly steps closer, her hands reaching out to hold his battered frame.

But Hamza instinctively flinches, stepping back into the doorframe, his hands raised in warning. “Saaf nahi hoon.. saaf nahi..”

[“I'm not clean.. I'm not clean..”]

Sanaz doesn't care.

She doesn't care if her fresh, clean clothes get completely ruined by the ash and dried gore of the Muridke graveyard. She lunges forward, throwing her arms around his massive, trembling torso, burying her face into his chest as her eyes close tight.

She had calculated the probability of danger, but she had never expected this level of horrific, primal injury.

Hamza freezes for a fraction of a second, his body rigid under the weight of his own sins. Then, slowly, the Sher-E-Baloch completely melts into her touch, wrapping his large, ringed hands back around her form, holding her like a man who has finally returned from hell.

She holds him tighter against her frame, the sharp, metallic scent of blood and wet soil clinging heavily to her nose. Ignoring the warning he just gave, she firmly shakes her head against his blood-soaked shoulder.

“Tum saaf ho, Hamza.”

[“You are clean, Hamza.”]

As her arms wrap securely around his back, the wet, dark crimson coating his fingers leaves a stark, irreversible stain across the fresh fabric at the back of her white kurta. She doesn't care. The only metric that matters right now is the solid, heavy rhythm of his chest beating against hers.

Gently breaking the embrace, she takes him by his uninjured arm and walks him slowly into the bathroom, helping his frame sit down onto the cold marble slab. Turning on the tap, she lets the water run hot, soaking a clean towel until the steam rises from the cloth. She brings it to his face, carefully pressing it against the skin to soften the caked-on grime.

Hamza winces slightly, his jaw clenching as the warmth hits the dozens of tiny, jagged cuts scoring his skin. The heat pulls a low, involuntary hiss from his split lips.

When the blood is finally cleared away and his features are visible, Sanaz’s breath falters. Tears instantly well up in her eyes as she looks at the raw canvas of his face. The sight triggers a dark memory in her mind—the horrific image of the asset Iqbal had captured months ago.

“Kya Iqbal ne tumhe bhi uss agent ki tarah...” her voice trails off, trembling. [“Did Iqbal do to you what he did to that agent...”]

Hamza slowly shakes his head, his eyelids dropping to cut off the memory. “Nahi... Bhaari chains ki chhot hai,” he mutters, his voice a gravelly, exhausted rasp.

[“No... It's just injuries from heavy chains.”]

Reassuring herself with a breath, she shifts back into her clinical precision. She gently washes his thick beard and the long, wild strands of his dark hair with antiseptic soap, her fingers checking the scalp grid for any hidden fractures or deeper lacerations. Satisfied, she gathers the wet, heavy locks and pulls his hair back into a tight bun to keep it clear of the wounds.

She pours rubbing alcohol onto a pad. The sting is immediate and sharp, but Hamza doesn't move a muscle, his eyes fixed steadily on her face as she sanitizes the cuts. She applies a thick layer of soothing antiseptic cream across his skin.

Thankfully, the damage isn't permanent. There are no deep, disfiguring scars across his features—only two distinct, jagged tracking lines cutting across his cheek and his forehead. She places clean, white bandages over them, sealing the skin.

“Sanaz... Ro matt,” he whispers into the quiet space between them. [“Sanaz... Don't cry.”]

She gives a silent nod, aggressively wiping the moisture from her face with the back of her forearm. Her hands are trembling from the sheer weight of the last twenty-four hours, yet she forces her fingers to steady as she administers the nerve block around his torn shoulder.

She threads the medical needle, sewing up the deep lacerations left by Major Iqbal. She works in silence, the only sound in the bathroom being the steady rhythm of their breathing. Finally, after cleaning the surrounding skin and dressing the shoulder with fresh gauze, she takes a step back.

But before she can entirely clear the space, Hamza reaches out.

His calloused hand catches her wrist, and with one pull, he draws her right back down into his lap, wrapping his uninjured arm securely around her waist for another desperate hug. He buries his face into the crook of her neck, holding her like a man anchoring himself against the edge of the world.

Sanaz closes her eyes, her arms locking around his broad shoulders as she feels the exhaustion radiating from his frame.

“Hamza... Aaram karo. Mere liye.”

[“Hamza... Rest. For me.”]

Hamza lets out a long, heavy sigh as he leans forward and rests his forehead against her damp shoulder.

“Sanaz... Wapas chalte hain.”

[“Sanaz... Let's go back.”]

“Nahi jaa sakte, Hamza,” she says softly but firmly, her body stiffening slightly in his embrace. “Meri jung abhi khatam nahi hui hai. Aachanak gayab ho gayi toh..”

[“We can't go, Hamza. My war isn't over yet. If I suddenly disappear, then..”]

His dark brows furrow slightly. Throughout their entire agent trajectory, he has rarely ever directed his anger or frustration toward her, but the threshold has been shattered.

“Toh kya?” he cuts her off, his voice dropping into a sharper, strained register. “Hum mehfooz rahenge Hindustan mein. Tum chahti ho sabki bali chadhe yahan?”

[“Then what? We will be safe in India. Do you want everyone to be sacrificed here?”]

Sanaz stands her ground, her eyes reflecting a cold ideology. “Balidan hi sabse bada dharm hai.”

[“Sacrifice is the ultimate duty.”]

He pulls away from her completely, a raw, painful groan escaping the depths of his chest as he looks at her through the white bandages on his face. “Bohot bali de di humne. Dusron ki, khud ki. Ab kuch nahi bacha dene ke liye.”

[“We have given too many sacrifices. Of others, of ourselves. Now there is nothing left to give.”]

“Agar itni jaldi hai toh akele chale jao,” she retorts sharply as she gets off his lap.

[“If you are in such a hurry, then go alone.”]

“Sanaz..”

Hamza immediately reaches out, his hand catching her wrist to anchor her to the spot, but she violently yanks it off, stepping back into the center of the bathroom.

“Main nahi jaa sakta tumhe chhor kar, yeh baat tum jaanti ho,” he rasps, “Tum aisi nahi thi, kya chhupa rahi ho mujhse?”

[“I cannot leave you behind, you know this very well. You weren't like this, what are you hiding from me?”]

She shakes her head, her jaw tightening as she looks at him. “Kuch nahi chhupa rahi. Dawood ke marne ke baad tehelka mach jayega. Us samay agar uski sabse qareebi doctor nahi hui toh uske ladke gade murde ukhad denge. Uska saltanat abhi khatam nahi hua hai, Chhota Shakeel, uska bhai Anees Ibrahim, sab yahin hain. Main chahti hoon jab hum yahan se nikle, lagbhag ek arse tak yeh log apna hisab chukta na kar paye.”

[“I am not hiding anything. A massive storm will hit after Dawood dies. If his closest doctor isn't there at that time, his boys will dig up old skeletons. His empire isn't finished yet—Chhota Shakeel, his brother Anees Ibrahim, they are all right here. I want that when we leave this place, these people shouldn't be able to settle their accounts for an entire era.”]

She turns fully to face him, her eyes burning. “Taaki jab yeh log apne sapne mein bhi Bharat ki taraf dekhen toh inke khwabo mein bhi hum baithe nazar aane chahiye.”

[“So that even if these people look toward India in their dreams, we should be visible sitting right there in their nightmares.”]

Hamza stares at her. “Kitne logo ko maarogi?”

[“How many people will you kill?”]

“Jitni goliyan saath de.”

[“As many as the bullets allow.”]

He leans his head back against the marble slab, the breath escaping his lungs in a slow, defeated hiss. That wasn't the answer he was expecting from his sanctuary. “Bilkul Sanyal sahab ki tarah baat karne lagi ho tum.”

[“You have started talking exactly like Mr. Sanyal.”]

She huffs. “Unke jaise kathor nahi hoon. Aur waise bhi Bansal Sahab ne kaha hi tha na... Marna toh ek din sabko hai, toh kyun nahi thoda macha ke marein. Lekin hum marenge nahi, Hamza. Machayenge bhi aur jiyenge bhi.”

[“I'm not heartless like him. And anyway, didn't Mr. Bansal say it himself... everyone has to die one day, so why not make a massive racket before we go? But we won't die, Hamza. We will cause havoc, and we will live through it too.”]

He doesn't say anything to challenge her.

“Aajao. Aaram kar lo,” she whispers gently, her tone shifting back into the soft caretaker.

[“Come. Take some rest.”]

She helps his heavy, aching frame get up from the marble slab and guides his slow, limping steps into the bedroom. He lowers himself onto the mattress with a deep, full-body groan, the local anesthesia finally numbing the violent stitch-work on his shoulder.

As she steps back toward the door, his eyes track her. “Akela chhor kar jaa rahi ho?”

[“Are you leaving me alone?”]

She shakes her head, checking the secure burner device in her hand. “Phone ka intezar kar rahi hoon. Aaj white house pe duty hai. Dua karo Bade Sahab ke lag gaye ho, bade wale.”

[“I am waiting for a phone call. Today is my shift at the White House. Pray that the Big Boss has been hit—and hit hard.”]

Hamza lets out a sudden, rough laugh that shakes his chest, throwing a heavy hand over his eyes as he lies back in the pillows.

“Kaatil ho.”

[“You are a killer.”]

“Bachpan se.”

[“Since childhood.”]

“Main maut se ladkar wapas aaya.”

[“I fought death and came back.”]

“Mare toh nahi na? Itna kaafi hai. Saansein chalti rehni chahiye bas.”

[“You didn't die, right? That's enough. Just the breathing needs to keep going.”]

Ting-ting.

The secure burner device vibrates violently in her palm. She slides the screen across, the caller ID flashing with the name of the chief medical officer at the syndicate's private wing.

“Dr. Sanaz, where the hell are you?!” the senior doctor’s voice screams through the receiver. “Bade Sahab can't move a limb. Aap jald hi jitne bhi reports hain sab lekar south city hospital aayein!”

[“Dr. Sanaz, where the hell are you?! Big Boss can't move a limb. Bring all the reports and come to South City Hospital immediately!”]

Sanaz doesn't even blink.

“Maaf kijiyega, sir. Yahan par haalat bohot kharab hai. Pakistani rangers ke humle ka shikar mere shauhar bhi hue hain. Aap toh jaante hi honge kitne kareeb the LeT ke. Thodi der hogi, lekin main zarur aaungi.”

[“Forgive me, sir. The situation is terrible here. My husband has also fallen victim to the Pakistani Rangers' attack. You must know how close he was to the LeT. It will take a little time, but I will definitely come.”]

Click.

She cuts the line before the administrator can cross-examine the variable.

A long, deep breath leaves her lungs. She reaches down, her fingers tightly locking into Hamza’s large hand one last time as he lies flat against the mattress.

“Rizwan ko saath lekar jaa rahi hoon. Phone par available rahungi. Zyada dikkat hui toh Jameel Sahab ko bula lijiyega,” she commands softly as she straightens her posture and stands up from the edge of the bed.

[“I am taking Rizwan with me. I'll be available on the phone. If there is too much trouble, call Jameel Sahab.”]

Hamza stares up from the pillows, his eyes narrowing through the white bandages on his face as the anesthesia begins to cloud his brain.

“Saare jawabon ke saath taiyyar rahiyega naye saal ke din,” she whispers from the threshold, a beautiful promise lingering in her smile. “Aur CHADAR-E-GUL KE SAATH BHI.”

[“Be ready with all the answers on New Year's Day. And with the shroud of roses too.”]

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The secure device inside his pocket vibrates. Hamza pulls it out, pressing it to his ear.

"Pohonch gaye?" Sanaz's voice cuts through the frequency. ["Have you arrived?"]

"Do ghante aur lagenge," he replies flatly. ["It will take two more hours."]

She lets out a soft, low hum of confirmation. "Clifton mein hoon. Jameel Sahab ke saath aayi hoon White House pe. Apna dhyaan rakhna, aur Rizwan ka bhi."

["I'm in Clifton. I've come to the White House with Jameel Sahab. Take care of yourself, and Rizwan too."]

He doesn't reply. His throat hitches, his lips pressing into a hard line as the severe weight of his dual existence presses against his chest.

Vaari varsi khattan gaya si, khatt ke liyanda patasa!

Ho mittran nu maar gaya, maar gaya ve tera haasa!

["I traveled for years to earn, and I brought back a sweet sugar-drop! Oh, your laughter has absolutely slain your lover, slain him completely!"]

The convoy slows down, pulling up into the high-security perimeter of the Muridke headquarters just as the blinding afternoon heat grid hits its peak.

Hamza steps out onto the hard-packed earth, smoothly straightening the length of his heavy dark coat over his structured waistcoat and linen kurta. He slides his dark sunglasses up the bridge of his nose, his long, wild hair catching the sudden dust-laden wind.

Rizwan steps down right behind his line, his expression entirely focused, wearing his own tailored utility set and tactical gear.

"Khushamdid," a high-ranking compound guard greets. ["Welcome."]

Hamza flashes a razor-sharp smile back. Without breaking pace, the two R&AW assets march forward, entering the towering archway of the central minaret together.

I put pen to the paper like they were crushing on each other

I make a deputy bend to me, I make a cop a butler

Craziest turn the laziest problem to a product, hustler

Probably profit 'cause I was popped up a prophet, word to mother

Word to mother, two hands on their neck like I was churning butter...

Inside the central strategic room, Major Iqbal sits heavily at the head of the long mahogany table. A dense cloud of grey cigarette smoke hovers around him like a toxic fog grid. His newly bald head is scrubbed clean, completely stripped of hair, reflecting the harsh light as he lowers his wire-rimmed glasses down his nose.

The Angel of Death has fully taken over.

Sajid Mir and Azam Cheema sit flanking his sides, their eyes locked onto the doorway layout.

Iqbal stands up to greet his protégé, stepping forward to pull Hamza into a heavy embrace. But this time, the internal temperature has dropped to zero. There is no paternal warmth, no lingering pride-only the cold, suffocating pressure of a trap snapping shut

Hamza hugs him back with identical rigidity.

So hot headed, if I go to sleep, I'll probably burn the covers

Burn the covers, if the covers burn, I gotta turn the mattress

Token the first pick, you under the pic like a wordy caption-

"Mashallah," Sajid Mir says, a thin, oily smile cutting across his face as Iqbal gestures for Hamza to occupy the central wooden chair directly opposite him.

"Haan ji, ladke tayyar hain?" Hamza questions bluntly, leaning back into the seat, his dark glasses still hiding the calculative movement of his eyes as he scans the perimeter.

["Yes, are the boys ready?"]

"Arey, pehle aao, baitho," Azam Cheema cuts in smoothly, waving a dismissive hand.

["Hey, first come and sit down."]

"Chai wai ka kuch intezam kijiye, itni dur se safar tayy kiya hai," Azam adds, turning toward the attendant at the door ledger.

["Make some arrangements for tea, he has traveled a long distance."]

"Haan lekin uske saath woh Nizami biscuit, uff," Mir chuckles, adding to the superficial layer of hospitality.

["Yes, but with those Nizami biscuits, uff."]

Hamza just nods slowly, a minimal smile playing at the edge of his lips.

Outside the high windows, the lower-tier members of Lashkar-e-Taiba are actively unloading the crates, carrying the heavy weapon shipments down into the darkness of the minaret basements. Down in the courtyard, Rizwan drags the massive, heavy duffel bags containing the multi-crore operational cash haul toward Hamza's SUV for transit.

Stepping to the rear of the vehicle, Rizwan yanks the metal tracks of the primary zipper open to inspect the currency brick layout.

His vision instantly freezes. His heart drops straight into his stomach.

Inside the bag, stacked in perfect, tight bundles... the paper notes are completely blank. There are no serial numbers printed on the currency. No government seals. No market value. It is dummy paper.

Realizing the ambush is already active, Rizwan spins on his heel, dropping the bag and sprinting frantically back toward the entrance of the minaret. But before his boots can hit the steps, the massive, iron-reinforced wooden doors slam shut with a deafening, echoing CRASH.

The security grid is locked. The assets are separated. And inside the room, the devil is finally looking at his target through clear glass.

"Kya soch rahe hain, Iqbal bhai?" Hamza questions, his fingers reaching up to slide the dark aviator shades off his face.

["What are you thinking, Brother Iqbal?"]

Iqbal doesn't answer immediately. He slowly exhales a dense cloud of grey smoke. "Tujhe pata hai main maqsad ke waqt mein mujahidinon ke call par kyun rehta hoon?"

["Do you know why I stay on the line during our operations when the mujahideen call?"]

"Unki rehmunayi ke liye?" Hamza assumes calmly.

["For their guidance?"]

Iqbal shakes his head slowly, a chilling, dead expression taking over his features. "Kaafiron ki cheekhe sunne ke liye. Bohot sukoon milta hai mujhe."

["To hear the screams of the infidels. It gives me immense peace."]

Hamza simply stares at him.

"Chahe main kuch bhi kyun na kar loon, uss mulk ko barbad karne ka khwab har pal mujhe satata rehta hai." Iqbal gets up from his chair, his movements entirely unhurried as he begins to slowly circle the long mahogany table. "Lekin aaj woh haqeeqat hote hue dikh raha hai."

["No matter what I do, the dream of destroying that country haunts me every single moment. But today, I can see it becoming a reality."]

He stops his walk, stepping directly into the space behind Hamza's blind spot, leaning down close to his ear. "Hindustan tabah hote hue dikh raha hai... tera mulk tabah hote hue dikh raha hai."

["I see India being destroyed... I see your country being ruined."]

Before the R&AW asset can even register the absolute exposure of his true identity, Iqbal's hand flies forward. He brutally grabs Hamza's neck, pinning his large frame flat against the back of the wooden chair. With his other hand, Iqbal draws a combat knife from his belt and thrusts it violently down into Hamza's shoulder.

Hamza lets out a raw, echoing scream, his body thrashing violently as the steel tears through the thick linen of his black kurta and deep into the muscle structure.

"Ab pata chala kaisa mehsus hota hai jab koi peeth peeche khanjar maarta hai," Iqbal growls. Without an ounce of mercy, he aggressively twists the embedded knife inside the wound, breaking the asset's threshold and making the seasoned enforcer cry out in agonizing pain.

["Now you know how it feels when someone stabs you in the back."]

Hamza violently throws himself completely off the chair to escape the chokehold. He crashes hard onto the stone floorboards, coughing out a thick splatter of dark blood. But before he can regain his balance, Iqbal steps into his space, kicking him right at the ruptured shoulder and launching a brutal boot across his face.

Sajid Mir and Azam Cheema sit completely still at the table, watching the bloody dismantling of the Sher-E-Baloch with open enjoyment.

Iqbal reaches down, grabbing Hamza by his blood-soaked collar to yank him up for a heavy punch to the jaw. But right as the fist connects, the survival baseline of the elite agent fully locks in.

The hesitation vanishes. Hamza stops the oncoming momentum, using his lower leverage to powerfully push the Major off his frame.

Sliding back rapidly across the bloody floor, Hamza forces his back against a heavy concrete pillar. With his breathing ragged and his vision swimming in a red haze, he grips the handle of the knife buried in his own flesh and pulls it completely out of his shoulder with a sharp screech.

The blood hits the white marble.

Hamza huffs, forcing his ragged breathing into a steady rhythm as he leans heavily against the cold concrete pillar. Then, a sound cuts through the room-a loud, mocking laugh that echoes off the walls with pure defiance.

"Kaafiron ka jallad... Major Iqbal!" He lets out another harsh, breathless laugh, his large, ringed hand dropping down to aggressively grab his crotch. "Arey mere lund ka jallad!"

["The executioner of infidels... Major Iqbal! The executioner, my dick!"]

Iqbal's face goes completely pale with rage as he stares down at his former protégé. Shoving Sajid Mir violently out of his path, he snatches a nearby assault rifle, leveling it and unleashing a furious volley of gunfire. The bullets chew into the concrete pillars, sending stone chips flying through the air grid, but not a single round touches Hamza's frame.

Iqbal takes a heavy step forward, the smoking barrel still raised. "Itni aasan maut nahi dunga tujhe. Tadpega tu, fir teri laash feek kar aaunga Hindustan mein."

["I won't give you such an easy death. You will writhe in agony, and then I'll throw your corpse back into India."]

Hamza takes a few more shallow breaths, his eyes darting down to track the ticking hands of the luxury Rolex on his wrist.

His mind instantly flashing back to the covert strategy alignment he made back in the wilderness with Shirani of the Baloch United Force:

"Aapke saath jin logo ne zyaati ki hai, unsab ka badla lena chahenge?" ["Would you like to take revenge on everyone who has wronged you?"]

Shirani gave a firm nod.

"Agar main ISI aur LeT ke members ko sabhi ko ek hi chhatt ke neeche le aaun, toh?" ["What if I bring the ISI and LeT members all under one single roof?"]

"Keher macha denge." ["We will unleash absolute havoc."]

And his final, unyielding operational command to Rizwan right before:

"Kuch bhi ho jaye, waqt par trigger daba dena." ["No matter what happens, pull the trigger on time."]

"Magar tu toh andar hoga... Bachega kaise?" ["But you'll be inside... how will you survive?"]

"Sambhal lunga." ["I'll handle it."]

Hamza looks straight into Iqbal's eye, a dangerous, mocking threat breaking through his blood-soaked mustache.

"Agar tum logo ke patakhe khatam ho gaye hain toh... Main dhamaka shuru karun?"

["If you guys are done with your firecrackers... should I start the real blast?"]

Before Major Iqbal, Sajid Mir, or Azam Cheema can even process the logic of his threat, down in the pitch-black layout of the minaret basements, the Lashkar-e-Taiba militants suddenly hear a frantic, metallic ticking sound echoing from the weapon crates.

And then... BOOM.

The concrete floor directly underneath the central room detonates with high-caliber force. The explosive shockwave tears through the structural foundations, violently throwing the bodies of the militant leadership off their feet as a rapid series of secondary blasts ripple through the underground grid. The towering minaret begins to fracture, its heavy walls groaning as thick smoke and debris consume the room.

Outside the collapsing compound, the real hell breaks loose.

Shirani and the heavily armed fighters of the Baloch United Force are already dominating the courtyard. Dressed in stolen Pakistani Rangers uniforms to completely compromise the local response timeline, they move through the dust, ruthlessly cutting down the remaining LeT guards.

At the rear of the vehicles, Rizwan violently slides the heavy camouflage canvas cover off one of the convoy trucks. He reveals a mounted machine gun, grips the handles with white-knuckled intensity, and begins firing a relentless, deafening hail of lead into the compound defenses.

The interior of the minaret is a hellscape of ruin. Heavy concrete dust and thick, toxic smog fill the air, completely obliterating any remaining visibility.

Through the grey haze, Sajid Mir stumbles, his face covered in soot as he frantically raises his assault rifle. "Kahan chhupa hai? Chhorenge nahi tujhe!"

["Where are you hiding? We won't let you go!"]

Tap. Tap.

Before Mir can swing his weapon coordinates around, an explosive punch slams into his jaw, shattering the bone structure and sending him reeling backward.

Hamza materializes from the smoke. He uses Major's own combat knife to slash downward, cleanly cutting straight through Azam Cheema's thigh muscle. Azam lets out a high-pitched shriek of agony as his leg gives out, his heavy frame crashing hard onto the floorboards.

Turning back to the stunned handler, Hamza brutally pins Mir's hand flat against the mahogany table. With a downward thrust, he drives the steel knife completely through the palm and deep into the thick wood, locking Mir to the table.

Azam tries to frantically crawl away through the red mud, his fingernails scraping against the cracked marble tiles as he gasps for air. But Hamza is already moving toward him.

His large hand wraps around a massive cement slab that remains attached to a thick, rusted iron rebar rod. He drags the heavy, multi-kilogram block along the ground, the sound of concrete grinding against concrete filling the ruined room.

When he finally reaches the form of the LeT commander, Hamza plants his boots. With a raw, animalistic roar that shakes the collapsing walls, he lifts the massive concrete-and-iron weapon high up into the air, using every ounce of his remaining strength.

He brings it down.

CRUNCH.

He lifts it again, bringing it down directly onto the writhing body. Again, again, and again. He doesn't stop until Azam Cheema's entire skeletal layout is completely crushed, his bones and flesh flying outward, reduced to an unrecognizable pulp on the floor.

Hamza turns on his heel, his heavy leather boots dragging through the crimson paste as he stalks back to the pinned handler. Sajid Mir is hyperventilating, his eyes blown wide with terror as he tracks the shadow closing in on his position.

Without a single word, Hamza grips Mir by the hair and violently thrusts his head forward against the protruding handle of the combat knife. The leverage forces the sharp edges of blade's base to stab directly into his eye sockets. Mir lets out a high-pitched, agonizing scream.

Leaving the screaming man to the wood, Hamza steps to the side of the heavy mahogany desk. Using every ounce of his strength, his muscles straining against the thick fabric of his kurta, he powerfully shoves the massive table off its remaining foundation.

The entire heavy wooden structure tips over, tumbling right down into the exposed ruin of the blasted basement. It falls with a CRASH, completely crushing the man's skull beneath the weight of the wreckage.

He stands there for a fraction of a second, his chest heaving as his system runs on pure survival adrenaline. The massive, cracked crystal chandelier sways precariously directly above his head, casting fractured glints of light through the heavy smoke.

Major Iqbal fires his assault rifle from behind the veil of smog. Hamza fleets instantly, his reflexes kicking in as the bullets chew into the stone right where his head had been a millisecond ago. Iqbal charges out from the haze.

Hamza moves fast, sprinting up the trembling, fractured staircase of the minaret. He slips low under a heavy concrete beam, ducking beneath a volley of rounds as he closes the distance to violently snatch the barrel of the weapon out of the older man's hands.

They collide with a brutal force-two generations of phantoms tearing into each other.

In the violent struggle, their combined weight crashes heavily against the compromised iron perimeter.

The structural railing snaps with a deafening screech of tearing metal.

Both men lose their footing entirely, breaking through the perimeter and falling side by side down into the pitch-black, cavernous pit of the ruined basement grid.

Hamza's body thuds heavily against the concrete debris below, the kinetic impact sending a violent shockwave through his ruptured shoulder and spine.

His vision instantly begins to blur into dark.. The last data point his mind tracks before slipping into complete unconsciousness is the silhouette of Major Iqbal-stumbling up from the wreckage and running away into the smog, the rifle still gripped firmly in his hands.

Meanwhile, in the marble corridors of Clifton, the atmosphere is heavy with a different kind of tension.

Sanaz is running her regular sequence of diagnostic tests on Dawood, who has been completely home-hospitalized. The mighty syndicate leader is a shadow of his former self, he can't even properly move his limbs anymore, his failing vitals entirely supported by a steady flow from an oxygen mask.

As she methodically packs her medical instruments back into her leather bag, the old man's raspy voice breaks through the hum of the heart monitor. "Ghar mein sab kuch theek hai Hamza ke saath...?"

["Is everything fine at home with Hamza...?"]

She nods smoothly. "Haan, sab theek hi hoga. Kyun?"

["Yes, everything must be fine. Why?"]

Dawood weakly reaches up, slipping off the oxygen mask as his hollow eyes lock onto her face. "Tum jaanti ho humein kitna khatra hai... Humare beech ek ghuspaithiya hai."

["You know how much danger we are in... There is an infiltrator among us."]

"Ghuspaithiya?" She tilts her head, effortlessly acting innocent.

["An infiltrator?"]

He gives a slow, heavy nod. "Iqbal ne kuch din pehle bataya tha. Humne khojane ki tayyari kar di hai."

["Iqbal told me a few days ago. We have made preparations to hunt them down."]

"Achcha," she mutters softly.

["I see."]

Behind her back, her fingers are already moving with blind, practiced speed across the screen of her device. She triggers a silent, encrypted link, clicking her phone to dial out.

The line connects instantly without a sound. On the other end, Jameel Sahab is sitting perfectly still in the living room of White House 13, the phone pressed to his ear as he silently tracks every single syllable echoing from the sickroom.

"Ek na ek din zarur mil jayega," Sanaz says calmly, stepping closer to the bed to adjust the heavy duvet over the old man's frail chest.

["They will definitely be found one day."]

"Inshallah," Dawood mutters into the dim light. "Magar humein khabar mili hai ki ek nahi, do ghuspaithiye hain."

["God willing. But we have received information that there isn't just one, but two infiltrators."]

Sanaz's breath hitches slightly, a microscopic tremor running through her chest.

Dawood leans his head back against the pillows, a cold smile touching his wrinkled lips. "Kahin woh tum toh nahi, Sanaz Sahiba?"

["Could that person be you, Lady Sanaz?"]

She lets out a soft, low chuckle, deflecting the heavy structural threat with seamless ease. "Kaisi baat kar rahe hain Bade Sahab... Main toh insab cheezon ke baare mein zyada jaanti bhi nahi."

["What are you saying, Big Boss... I don't even know much about these matters."]

"Khandan Dubai mein hai na tumhara? Hamza ko lekar saath gayi thi kuch hafte pehle?" Dawood counters, his voice testing.

["Your family is in Dubai, right? You went there with Hamza a few weeks ago?"]

She gives a single nod.

"Mujhe baat karni hai."

["I want to speak to them."]

She blinks, her eyes completely unreadable. "Kis silsile mein?"

["In what regard?"]

"Aakhir unhe bhi toh pata chalna chahiye... Unki beti Ghayal Sher ke liye kaam karti hai. Apna phone do." His shaky, trembling hand extends across the sheets, the baseline rhythm of the heart monitor audibly rising as his paranoia spikes.

["After all, they should also know... their daughter works for the Wounded Lion. Give me your phone."]

Sanaz smoothly cuts the active call to Jameel behind her back. Without a single trace of hesitation, she extends her hand.

There is no contact list saved.

There is no family history log. Not even a single fake cover variable or dummy profile has been programmed into this specific asset line.

God knows how this will end when the old man looks at the empty screen.

When Hamza's eyes crack open, the world is spinning. He immediately pushes against the rubble, trying to force his frame upward despite his systems screaming in protest. His long, wild hair is completely caked with dust and sand.

Clawing his way up the slanted, fractured wreckage of the heavy mahogany table that crushed Mir, he climbs heavily until he finally stumbles toward the blown-out exit, his large hand clutches his bleeding shoulder.

Right at the threshold, Shirani is aggressively entering the compromised perimeter of the Muridke with his fighters.

"Sab tabah kar do," Hamza mutters. ["Destroy everything."]

Shirani gives a single, firm nod, his jaw set as his men push past the wounded enforcer to dismantle the remaining infrastructure.

Hamza stumbles out onto the open dirt road, the blinding afternoon sun hitting his dust-covered face. In the courtyard, the chaotic firefight is still fiercely active. Spotting the mounted gun position, he roars through the gunfire, "Rizwan! Cover!"

The remaining Baloch United Force fighters immediately line up, forming a tight tactical grid to draw the enemy's attention. Hamza reaches into the open back of the convoy truck and yanks out a heavy bazooka, balancing the massive launch tube over his uninjured shoulder.

He closes his left eye, tracking through the iron sights until he locks onto his target-Major Iqbal, who is desperately firing his assault rifle from behind a defensive concrete barricade.

Hamza squeezes the trigger.

The rocket ignites with a deafening roar, streaking through the dust cloud. It strikes hard, tearing directly through the torso of a militant who stepped into the line of fire, killing him instantly on impact before the payload detonates, launching a massive fireball into the sky.

But through the settling black smoke, Hamza tracks the movement. Iqbal is still alive.

Refusing to let the devil slip away, Hamza shoves the empty bazooka onto the shoulder of a nearby fighter, aggressively borrowing a heavy shotgun from another. With a raw, animalistic roar that echoes over the sound of explosions, he sprints directly into the haze after the fleeing commander.

The final, bloody chase has officially started.

They tear through the densely packed neighborhoods surrounding their heavy boots slamming against clay tiles and concrete steps as they scale external stairs and sprint across connected rooftops.

"Ruk, saale jihadi!" Hamza yells, as he chambers a shell and fires a blasting round across the roofline, sending brick shards flying near Iqbal's head.

["Stop, you bastard jihadi!"]

The pursuit spills out into a massive industrial shipping yard, bounded by endless tracks of cargo trains, heavy shipments, and towering steel compartments. Iqbal scrambles up the side ladder of a massive metal train car. Hamza is hot on his heels, climbing the iron rungs with ruthless speed. But the moment Hamza reaches the upper platform, Iqbal violently kicks open a heavy iron compartment door.

The solid steel door slams directly into Hamza's frame, sending him flying backward off the car. He hits the gravel below with a series of heavy, bone-jarring thuds, the shotgun slipping from his grip.

Before Hamza can recover his footing, Iqbal smoothly slides down from the upper deck using a thick, hanging industrial chain. The bald commander rapidly wraps the iron links around his fist, transforming the heavy metal chain into a swinging leash. He lashes downward, the iron links striking Hamza across his wounded torso with agonizing force.

Through terrifying resilience, he somehow forces his bleeding body back onto his boots. But the moment he stands, Iqbal closes the distance. He lunges forward, violently wrapping the thick, cold iron chains directly around Hamza's face and neck, cutting off his oxygen.

Iqbal brutally slams him back, pinning Hamza's chest tight against the corrugated metal wall of a massive cargo container.

Iqbal spins around, planting his back flat against Hamza's back, pulling the heavy chains over his own shoulders. The rusted iron links rub tightly against the raw skin of Hamza's neck, choking the life out of him as Iqbal grits his teeth, "Humare mulk mein pede baatne chala tha, ab pura Pakistan Hindustan pe baithega!"

["You went to distribute sweets in our country, now the whole of Pakistan will sit on India's chest!"]

Hamza can't even breathe, his vision completely exploding into black spots as his hands fly up in the air, clawing desperately at the cold iron links.

"Kahe ka Hindustani agent, khassi sala!" Iqbal yells into the hot industrial air. "Sabko kalma padh waunga. Har mard ka khatna karwaunga. Do kaudi mein bikengi saali teri aurtein!"

["What kind of Indian agent, you castrated bastard! I'll make everyone recite the kalma. I'll have every man circumcised. Your women will be sold for pennies!"]

Iqbal rubs the rusted chain harder, the immense friction tearing Hamza's skin apart as dark crimson wells up.

He forces a sudden, internal calm down his spine. His large hands reach down, gripping the base of the links, and he uses the massive power of his legs to push hard against the gravel.

Hamza jumps violently backward, smashing his entire physical weight into Iqbal's back to break the leverage line. The momentum shatters the hold, and Hamza follows through instantly with a brutal, bone-shattering punch straight to the older man's jaw.

CRACK.

Hamza stumbles back, taking slow breaths as he aggressively unwraps the remaining lengths of the heavy chain from his face and neck, tossing them to the dirt.

Iqbal groans, staggering back against the side of the shipment train cars, his breath hitching as he tries to chamber another round into his stance. But Hamza is already executing the final equation. His long fingers wrap around the heavy industrial chopper tool resting near the cargo tracks, connecting it firmly to the end of the thick steel chain.

He starts stepping forward.

The violent industrial wind whips across the shipping yard, blowing the long, dust-caked hair away from his face. His entire canvas is completely red with his own spilled blood. He doesn't even look human anymore.

The elite agent has completely vanished, replaced by the Wrath of God.

With one final, earth-shaking roar, Hamza swings the weighted chain hard.

The iron links catch the momentum perfectly in a flawless display of physics, accelerating the heavy chopper blade through the air layout until it slices cleanly through both of Iqbal's legs.

The Major lets out a horrific, high-pitched scream of pure agony, crashing heavily into the gravel as he desperately holds the ruin of his lower limbs. His eyes are wide with paralyzed terror-one leg completely severed from the impact, and the other hanging on only because of the exposed bone structure.

Hamza wraps the heavy iron chain tightly around Iqbal's neck, the metal links biting into the raw flesh as he ruthlessly drags the legless commander across the rough gravel toward the train container.

"Ab marne ki baari teri," he growls, his teeth bared like a wild animal. Nobody in his entire agent trajectory has ever seen this specific, feral expression on his face.

["Now it's your turn to die."]

He climbs up to the top platform of the industrial cargo train, hauling Iqbal's mangled, bleeding body up behind him. With a sharp kick, Hamza strikes open the heavy iron lid of the train's petrol tanker. He shoves the devil of ISI straight into the dark cavity, aggressively binding the thick chains around the structure so there won't be a single chance of escape.

"Bohot khoon baha liya tune mere desh ka," his boot slams heavily against the metal frame of the tank. "Par ab... bas!" He reaches down, brutally grabbing Iqbal's collar, his green eyes burning through the blood and soot. "Kyunki yeh naya Hindustan hai, yeh ghar mein ghusega bhi aur maarega bhi."

["You have spilled too much of my country's blood. But now... enough! Because this is the new India-it will enter your home, and it will eliminate you."]

He climbs down the side rungs, his boots hitting the ground as he opens the main release valve at the base of the tanker. The highly flammable liquid starts pouring out rapidly, pooling across the tracks. Hamza steps forward, his long fingers reaching into his dark coat pocket to pull out a sleek lighter.

He clicks the flint, lighting the flame, and holds it perfectly steady over the rising fumes.

"Tera bhi hisaab hoga kaafir!" Iqbal yells frantically. "Qayamat ke din tu jahannum mein jayega!"

["Your account will be settled too, infidel! On the day of judgment, you will go to hell!"]

Hamza turns around slowly, his face completely unreadable through the mask of crimson blood. "Safeena ko yaad karle aakhri baar."

["Think of Safeena one last time."]

But Iqbal has completely lost all tether to reality, his final moments entirely consumed by ideological madness. "Mere marne se yeh khatam nahi hoga! Dekh lena, jab yahan se fauj uthegi toh Hindustan jaa kar hi maanegi!"

["This won't end with my death! Mark my words, when the army rises from here, it will only stop after reaching India!"]

Hamza starts walking away down the industrial tracks, ignoring the screams. He doesn't look back even once, his posture slightly limping as his injured shoulder and battered spine fight the breakdown of adrenaline.

"Firse ghusenge! Baar baar ghusenge! Delhi ko naya Islamabad banayenge!" Iqbal's voice screeches.

["We will enter again! We will enter repeatedly! We will turn Delhi into the new Islamabad!"]

He just keeps walking, his back to the train cars.

The fluid on the ground finally catches the spark. A line of blue and orange fire races up the side of the metal compartment with terrifying velocity.

"Pakistan, zindaba-"

[Long live Pak-]

BOOM!

The primary petrol tanker detonates with a catastrophic shockwave that rips the afternoon sky apart. The force of the initial blast is so immense that it triggers a violent chain reaction, causing the adjacent industrial tankers to explode in a massive, roaring series of consecutive fireballs. The sky over the shipping yard turns pitch black with columns of toxic smoke.

Major Iqbal is ash.

Hamza drops heavily onto an abandoned, dust-caked plastic chair resting near the smoking space of the train line. His hands, still stained dark with Iqbal's blood, tremble slightly as he digs into his pocket and pulls out a lone cigarette. He drops the matchbox to the dirt, anchoring it firmly under the toe of his leather boot as he strikes a match against the side grit, lighting it up.

He doesn't dial the secure lines to Sanyal or Bansal at the R&AW headquarters.

Instead, his thumb presses the glass to call Sanaz.

Once.

Twice.

The encrypted line rings out completely into the static, remaining entirely unanswered. His brows furrow deeply, a cold line of sweat cutting through the dried blood on his forehead as he stares down at the deeply cracked screen of the device.

As he slides through the interface, he notices a string of urgent missed calls from Jameel Jamali, along with a single, unread voice note left behind in the data log. With his heart rate instantly spiking, Hamza brings the phone close to his ear.

"Hamza, gadbad ho gayi hai. Dawood ko shayad Sanaz pe shaq hai. Woh uske saath bilkul akeli hai."

["Hamza, something has gone wrong. Dawood probably suspects Sanaz. She is absolutely alone with him."]

His heart drops straight out of his chest.

He immediately spews the lit cigarette out of his mouth, his fingers rapidly redialing Jamali's number-but the line goes completely dead.

Nobody is picking up on the Karachi end.

A heavy, ragged groan escapes his throat as hot tears of pure, physical and emotional exhaustion finally fill his eyes. He looks down at the luxury Rolex on his wrist; the hands point exactly to four in the evening.

Clifton is a sixteen-hour hard drive away across heavily monitored territory.

If Dawood's syndicate has successfully identified Sanaz as the infiltrator, the old king undoubtedly knows the truth about the identity of the Sher-E-Baloch as well.

He ignores his injuries, bypasses the operational protocol, and burns rubber for sixteen hours straight to storm the Clifton White House. He risks walking directly into a secondary syndicate ambush, completely blowing his decade long deep-cover investment out of the water, solely to pull Sanaz out of the room before Dawood orders her execution.

Or, he stays behind in the secure perimeter established by the Baloch United Force, immediately dialing the Intelligence Bureau or R&AW to dump the entire compromised syndicate data log.

He lets the official state apparatus handle the cleanup while he preserves his hard-earned cover profile, accepting the cold risk that by the time the agency moves, Sanaz might ALREADY BE DEAD.

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Last night, they had dragged their exhausted, adrenaline-drained bodies back to the Lyari house, showered off the scent of industrial fuel, and crashed directly onto the same mattress.

Even in her deep, unbothered sleep, her fingers are still firmly clutching the fabric of his black kurta, as if her subconscious is terrified he'll vanish the moment she lets go.

Beside her pillow, the orange tiger plushie sits upright, staring blankly at the two R&AW operators. Hamza shifts his massive frame closer, leaning down to press a soft kiss against her forehead.

​He glances down at her palm.

The dark bridal mehendi from their sudden nikah has almost entirely faded now, leaving behind nothing but blurred orange lines across her skin. The word Jaskirat, which she had so carefully hidden in the intricate patterns, has completely vanished.

​Outside the window frame, the morning birds chirp peacefully against the cool air. Hamza reaches for his device on the nightstand, scrolling through the local media wires. The top headlines are already flooding the grid: the state media has officially framed Khanani's death as a tragic, high-stress suicide brought on by financial ruin.

Nice. The track is entirely clean.

​"Arey main use bhagane thodi aaya hoon," a loud, booming voice suddenly cuts through the quiet room.

​["Hey, I haven't come to steal her away."]

​Jameel Sahab walks straight into the bedroom without a single cue of warning. Hamza straightens up instantly, "Jameel Sahab, aap?"

​["Mr. Jameel, you?"]

​"Maaf karna thoda jaldi mein hoon," Jameel mutters briskly, completely unbothered by the domestic scene as he walks over to the desk, dropping a stack of official transit documents and sealed envelopes onto the polished wood. "Isme Dubai ke tickets hain."

​["Forgive me, I'm in a bit of a hurry... These contain the tickets to Dubai."]

​Hamza's brows furrow deeply. "Dubai kyun?"

​["Why Dubai?"]

​"Honeymoon ke liye."

​["For your honeymoon."]

​Hamza lets out a dry, mocking scoff, shifting his weight against the headboard. "Das din baad?"

​["Ten days later?"]

​"Yahan maahol garam hai. Tu aaram kar. Main aur Rizwan yahan sab sambhal lenge," Jameel states with a knowing, heavy look. ​["The atmosphere here is hot. You rest. Rizwan and I will handle everything here."]

​Clank-shatter.

​The violent, metallic ring of heavy metal utensils crashing loudly against the marble floor downstairs tears through the house.

​Sanaz springs upright in a fraction of a second, her eye snapping wide open as her hand flies instinctively toward the space where her gun usually rests. "Aatankwadi aa gaye-!"

​["The terrorists are here-!"]

​"Maafi sahab! Bartan gir gaya!" the elderly maid's panicked voice echoes loudly from the ground floor kitchen. ​["Forgive me, sir! A utensil fell!"]

​Sanaz lets out a slow, thoroughly irritated breath, rubbing her temples. She aggressively pulls the heavy duvet back over her shoulders, glaring at the paperwork on the desk. "Yeh sab kya hai?"

​["What is all this?"]

​Hamza looks down at his volatile possessive wife, a slow, dangerous smirk creeping back onto his lips.

​"Honey to the moon."

The flight from Karachi to Dubai isn't long.

The packing process inside the house had devolved into a frenzied blur of throwing fabrics into leather suitcases. Now, thousands of feet in the air, Sanaz is spent the entire flight relentlessly whining about her abandoned aesthetic itinerary that she had perfectly mapped out an entire look-book of high-end "dream outfits" for the Dubai backdrop.

Meanwhile, Hamza sits rigidly in the seat beside her, staring blankly ahead into the cabin space, traumatized by his own packing data.

Sanaz turns her head. "Kya hua? Aise dekh rahe ho jaise border pe army lag gayi ho."

["What happened? You're staring like the army just lined up at the border."]

Hamza clears his throat roughly, a deeply embarrassed whisper. "Sanaz... main jaldi mein... briefcase mein apna saaman rakhna bhool gaya."

["Sanaz... in a hurry... I forgot to put my clothes in the briefcase."]

She tilts her head. "Kaun sa saaman? Kurte toh hain."

["Which clothes? Your kurtas are there."]

"Neeche ka," he mutters flatly, his jaw clenching so hard a vein pops near his temple as he refuses to look her in the eye.

["The undergarments."]

Sanaz blinks for a full three seconds as the mathematical reality hits her. A sudden, sharp chuckle escapes her lips.

"Hanso mat," he grumbles. ["Don't laugh."]

Sanaz leans back in her premium leather seat, a wicked smirk on her face as she tilts her head toward him. "Waise bhi kya zarurat underwear ki? Honeymoon pe kon pehenta-"

["Anyway, what's the need for underwear? Who even wears it on a honeymoon-"]

"Sanaz."

The private transit drops them straight at the sprawling, opulent gates of the One&Only Royal Mirage at Palm Jumeirah. The architecture is a breathtaking, massive display of billionaire luxury-marbled pillars, gold-trimmed archways, and manicured palms swaying against the intense Dubai heat.

They are escorted up to their VVIP honeymoon suite, and the sheer scale of the room is staggering. The center of the sanctuary houses a massive, king-sized bed draped in sheer ivory curtains, positioned directly beneath a sweeping ceiling window that floods the room with natural light. Right outside the glass folding doors, a private, azure plunge pool shimmers against the stone terrace ledge.

Hamza drags their heavy leather suitcases over the polished marble floor, letting out an exhausted breath. He walks toward the wet bar, pouring himself a tall glass of ice water to cool his burning core.

Meanwhile, Sanaz's gaze immediately locks onto the velvet-lined gift basket placed squarely in the center of the crisp white duvet. She walks over, immediately checking the contents.

Premium red roses.

Imported French perfume.

Scented artisanal soaps.

Artisanal dark chocolates.

Gourmet dates and exotic dry fruits.

Extra-dotted cond...

Sanaz's fingers freeze mid-air.

Her eyes widen in horror as she reads the bold lettering on the sleek wrapper. Condoms.

Pffft-cough!

Across the room, Hamza violently spews his mouthful of ice water straight back into the sink, coughing roughly as the fluid hits his windpipe. His ears instantly turn a bright shade of crimson.

Sanaz recoils as if she's just touched a live wire, violently flinging the packet across the room where it skitters uselessly against the marble baseboards.

She wrinkles her nose. "Chhiii!"

["Gross!"]

He lets out a heavy huff, wiping the stray water droplets from his chin. "Aise kyun feka jaise uranium ho?"

["Why did you throw it like it's uranium?"]

Sanaz crosses her arms tightly, her nose still wrinkled. "Mere liye uranium hi hai. Mujhe nahi pasand, yeh plastic itna chipchipa aur ajeeb hota hai."

["For me, it is uranium. I don't like it, this plastic is so sticky and weird."]

Hamza's thick brows furrow instantly. "Tumhe kaise pata chipchipa hota hai?"

["How do you know it's sticky?"]

Sanaz tilts her head, immediately firing back a defensive counter-query. "Tumhe kaise pata?"

["How do you know?"]

"Pehle tum."

["You first."]

She lets out a thoroughly frustrated, dramatic groan, burying her face in her hands for a brief microsecond before looking back at him. "Maine pehli baar condom ka packet dekha tha jab main paanch saal ki thi. Use khola and it was so wet. Disgusting. Tabse thodi nafrat si hogayi hai."

["I saw a condom packet for the first time when I was five years old. I opened it and it was so wet. Disgusting. Since then, I've had a bit of a hatred for it."]

Hamza shakes his head slowly, a genuinely amused smile completely breaking through his hardened exterior. He walks over to her. "I feel sorry for you. Lekin humein condom ki kya zarurat. Humne vasectomy aur salpingectomy karwayi hai na-"

["I feel sorry for you. But what's the need for a condom for us anyway? We've had a vasectomy and a salpingectomy done-"]

"Hamza."

By the evening, the sprawling suite had finally assumed a semblance of orderly discipline. True to his word, Hamza had navigated the luxury retail grids of the Palm to rectify his wardrobe crisis-and, under strict duress, to procure the specific aesthetic pieces Sanaz had frantically forwarded reference for.

Still, her mind remained entirely skeptical of a Para SF veteran's capability to parse fashion metrics.

When the heavy suite doors clicked open and Hamza was practically buried under nearly ten oversized luxury boutique bags.

Sanaz's brows furrowed instantly. She pulled herself up from the plush duvet. "Khud ke paise nahi hain isiliye ayyashi se uda rahe ho."

["It's not your own money, that's why you're carelessly blowing it on luxury."]

He let out a heavy huff, dropping the massive haul onto the marble floor before sinking into the deep leather sofa.

She immediately descends upon the bags. The first three compartments were entirely occupied by premium Calvin Klein boxes-exactly twenty pairs.

Sanaz rolled her eyes, lifting a box with two fingers. "Pehle ek chaddi se hi kaam chalate the kya?"

["Did you use to manage with just one pair of underwear before this?"]

"They're in different colours, yaar," he grumbled, leaning his head back against the cushion.

"Toh kya? Pehenna toh tumhe kala kurta hi hai. Aur salwar utar ke kaun dekhne jaa raha hai ki tumne pink boxers pehna hai?" she shot back with bluntness.

["So what? You still have to wear your black kurta anyway. And who is going to strip your salwar off to check if you're wearing pink boxers?"]

"Main dekhta hoon."

["I look."]

Sanaz shook her head, a flush hitting her cheeks as she pivoted to the next objective. The man had apparently undergone a severe retail compulsion; he had purchased multiple pairs of heavy leather boots, but varying subtly in tones of deep tan, charcoal, and midnight black. She pushed the heavy footwear aside, her fingers diving into the remaining silk boutique handles.

Then, her hands froze.

From the folds of tissue paper, she carefully extracted a stunning, deep maroon saree. The fabric was heavy, fluid, and intricately laced with delicate pearl details along the borders, paired with a matching, heavily embroidered readymade blouse. The design was elegant, sharp, and undeniably striking-completely defying her low expectations of his taste.

She lifted the fabric against her frame, looking toward the mirror grid as she muttered under her breath, "Mujhe nahi pata yeh fit hoga ya nahi..."

["I don't know if this will fit or not..."]

"Hojayega, adjustable hooks hain," he replies from the sofa. ["It will fit, it has adjustable hooks."]

"Main check karke aati hoon."

["I'll go check."]

She gathers the silk and pearls into her arms and walks straight into the marble-paneled bathroom. Hamza leans his head back, his fingers tracing the edge of his jaw as the minutes tick by.

After about a minute or two, the bathroom door clicks open. Sanaz returns to the living area, stepping toward the floor-length gold-trimmed mirror. She hasn't draped the entire six yards yet; she's only wearing the heavily embroidered maroon blouse paired with her fitted black lounging shorts, her shoulders and bare midriff completely exposed to the room's light.

"Theek thaak hai. Thoda tight hai, lekin adjust ho jayega," she mutters, adjusting the back closure as she studies her reflection. "Kaise pata chala?"

["It's decent. A bit tight, but it will adjust. How did you know?"]

Hamza gets up from the leather cushions. His heavy, bare footsteps are silent against the polished floor as he crosses the room, directly behind her frame. His shadow swallows her silhouette in the mirror. He leans down slightly, his breath brushing the nape of her neck as his gaze locks onto hers in the glass.

"Maine kaha tha na, Jaan. Main sab dekhta hoon."

["I told you, love. I see everything."]

She glares at him through the mirror, though her breathing changes subtly at his sudden proximity. "Dusron ko dekhte ho isiliye khud ki cheezein bhul jaate ho."

["You keep watching others, that's why you forget your own things."]

He lets out a dry, amused huff, his chest expanding against her bare shoulder blades. "Shukriya ada bhi nahi kar sakti?"

["Can't you even say thank you?"]

"Kyun karun?" She smiles mischievously, her fingers smoothing down the pearl-studded border of the sleeve.

["Why should I?"]

She turns slightly to check the rear profile. The back design is structured and clean, not revealing anything excessive, which satisfies her baseline. But when she snaps her gaze back to the front-oh. The neckline isn't strictly cut too deep, but given the soft curves of her anatomy, the heavy embroidery frames her chest in a way that leaves the expanse of bare skin completely visible.

She squints at his reflection, "Jaan bujh kar aise kapde liye."

["You bought these clothes on purpose."]

Hamza gasps, his chest heaving in an almost offended display of innocence. "You're calling me a pervert? I wanted an adjustable blo-fine, jo samajhna hai samjho. You look good, anyway."

["...fine, think whatever you want."]

Sanaz lets out a quiet, knowing hum, walking back toward the pile of luxury boutique handles scattered on the floor. "Mhm, baaki sara saaman check karte hain."

["Mhm, let's check the rest of the stuff."]

They step away from the mirror, as they walk back to the sofa. Sanaz reaches down for the next sleek boutique handle, pulling out an intricate, delicate velvet case.

Inside rests a stunning gold chest chain. It isn't that loud, aggressive yellow; it carries a muted, elegant platinum-gold sheen, studded with micro-diamonds and pearls that act as a central anchor for a web of incredibly thin, cascading chains designed to trace the contours of her bare torso beneath a saree or a deep neckline.

She lifts the jewelry, the chains catching the blue-orange sunset light bleeding through the window panes. Her eyes slid up to his face, a slow, knowing smirk cutting across her features. "I know what kind of a man you are," she whispers.

"Guilty," he murmurs, his ears turning a faint shade of red as he rubs the back of his neck.

She sets the velvet case aside and reaches for the largest black garment bag. Unzipping it, she pulls out a spectacular, long midnight-black mermaid dress. The architecture of the garment is lethal-clenched tight at the upper body, tracing the exact curves of the waist and hips with a tailored grip, before flaring out into a fluid, elegant flow at the legs.

He had understood the assignment.

Digging deeper into the retail haul, she finds the rest of the pieces he'd secured based on her digital references: a simple, soft white sundress that smells of summer, and a sleek, dangerous mini-dress that both R&AW assets know she can't possibly wear out onto the public streets of Dubai, but is entirely perfect for the absolute privacy of their VVIP terrace grid.

She runs her fingers over the sleek black fabric, humming softly as she looks up at him. "Aur tum kurte pehenoge jab main yeh dresses pehnungi?"

["And will you wear kurtas when I wear these dresses?"]

"Of course not," he replies instantly, his arms over his broad chest. "Suits, jeans, cargos, jackets... sab pack kiye the maine."

["Suits, jeans, cargos, jackets... I packed everything."]

"Aaj raat kahin jana hai kya?" she questions, her voice soft. ["Do we have to go somewhere tonight?"]

He shakes his head slowly, his green eyes never leaving her silhouette. "Sab plan karna padega. Tum chaho toh we can explore this place."

["We'll have to plan everything. If you want, we can explore this place."]

She nods, "Koi shant si jagah chalte hain."

["Let's go somewhere quiet."]

He nods back in agreement.

They spend the rest of the evening getting ready. Hamza patiently helps her with the heavy maroon saree, his hands handling the fluid silk as she admits she doesn't perfectly know how to drape it.

She slides into a pair of simple, low-heel sandals, leaving her hair completely open to fall over her shoulders. Around her throat, she fastens the pearl-and-gold choker, the jewels catching the room's light alongside her heavy bangles. A sharp swipe of red lipstick, a minimal trace of makeup.

Hamza slides into a deep maroon linen kurta and a fluid, dark salwar, anchored at the base by his heavy leather boots. Multiple silver chains trace across his broad chest, catching the shadows. He entirely leaves his usual waistcoat or long jacket, rolling the sleeves of his kurta high up on his forearms, exposing the thick, vein-lined muscle of his forearms, his heavy silver rings, and the luxury sheen of his Rolex.

They rent a premium, matte-black SUV, navigating out of the bustling city infrastructure toward the secluded Love Lake. By the time they arrive deep in the desert, the temperature has already dropped, leaving the air cool, crisp, and completely clear of urban smog. He drives the massive vehicle right near the edge of the dark, mirroring water, where the vast, unedited view of the galaxy stretches across the black sky.

Climbing up onto the wide roof of the SUV, they sit close together, casually munching on food from the gourmet buckets they brought along. The desert wind blows aggressively, whipping their long hair.

"Tumhe pata hai... Maine kabhi antariksh ko itne kareeb se nahi dekha," she mutters softly, her voice carrying a rare, childlike wonder.

["You know... I've never seen space from this close before."]

"Maine bhi," he murmurs back. "Taare, Suraj, Chand... kabhi kabhi dikh jaate hain."

["Me neither. Stars, Sun, Moon... they just show up sometimes."]

By late night, the cold settling over the sands forces them to pull closer, Sanaz sinking completely into his mass as they hug each other tightly for warmth. He rubs his large palm slowly up and down the expanse of her back, his rough fingers dipping beneath the silk to catch the thin, gold waist chain resting against her skin.

"Maine bohot baar socha hai nabhi chidwane ka," she whispers bluntly into his collarbone.

["I've thought about getting my belly button pierced many times."]

"Oh?" Hamza shifts slightly, his eyes dropping down to look at the bare expanse of her midriff in the starlight. "Achcha lagega tumpar." He applies a sudden, firm squeeze to the soft curve of her waist, ["Oh? It will look good on you."]

She lets out a tiny, soft whine at the pressure, shifting against his lap. "Shayad... baad mein," she mutters. ["Perhaps... later."]

"Fine too," he replies. "More places to kiss."

She tilts her head up. "What's stopping you now?"

"Actually... nothing."

A sharp, breathless yelp escapes her lips as Hamza moves with effortless strength, dragging her small frame completely onto his lap. He leans down, nuzzling his sharp nose directly into the warm skin of her waist.

Sanaz breaks into a sudden, genuine giggle at the intensely ticklish feeling, her fingers gripping his shoulders as he leans in closer, his teeth grazing and gently biting at the soft, bare skin of her stomach.

"Bas... khana khane do!" she laughs softly, trying to push his head away, though her fingers only tighten in his long hair.

["Stop... let me eat my food!"]

The massive vessel cuts smoothly through the black waves of the Persian Gulf, the distant lights of the Dubai skyline flickering like a faint digital grid on the horizon. Out on the main deck layout, Hamza stands casually against the polished teakwood railing, a low glass of dark scotch whiskey resting between his fingers. He takes a measured sip, his green eyes completely tracking the dark, shifting expanse of the sea.

He has fully stepped into a sharply tailored, structured dark coat over deep black trousers, completely bypassing a shirt or a waistcoat beneath. The open fabric exposes the hard, scarred canvas of his chest, where his silver and platinum chain collection catches the ambient deck lighting with a dangerous, masculine sheen.

A few yards away, tucked into the cushions of an elite outdoor sofa, Sanaz sits rigidly. Her posture is a mixture of half-scared and half-amused as she stares down into the ink-black, unfathomable water swirling past the hull.

She is wearing the long midnight-black mermaid dress, the heavy architecture of the fabric clinging to her curves. Rested against her skin, the intricate gold chest chain he bought her frames her collarbones and her exposed cleavage perfectly, its diamonds glinting under the dim maritime lights.

Hamza notices her micro-movements, a thoroughly entertained smirk cutting across his sharp features. "Darr kyun rahi ho tum?" he questions. ["Why are you scared?"]

Sanaz darts her eyes down to the black water one last time before immediately snapping her head back toward the center of the deck, "Agar yeh jahaj doobi..." she glares at his unbothered posture, "toh main tumhe..."

["If this ship sinks... then I'll..."]

"Hum Titanic pe nahi hain, Seherzadi," he breaks in smoothly. ["We are not on the Titanic, Princess."]

"Titanic bhi yehi bolta tha," she shoots back instantly, her fingers tightening around the fabric of her black dress. ["The Titanic used to say the exact same thing."]

He lets out a low chuckle, turning his back to the water to lean fully against the railing, his chest expanding as he looks down at her. "Lifeboats hain yahan par."

["There are lifeboats here."]

"Lekin itne hazar log yahan-"

["But there are thousands of people here-"]

"Maine tumse puchcha tha yahan aana chahati ho ya nahi, tumne bola haan," he reminds. ["I asked you if you wanted to come here or not, you said yes."]

"Josh josh mein bola tha," she mutters under her breath. ["I said it in the heat of the moment."]

Without waiting for his list of logical receipts, she abruptly gets up from the sofa. She spins around, abandoning the open deck entirely, and begins walking briskly toward the corridor leading to their private VVIP suite, weaving smoothly through the crowd of wealthy international travelers.

He huffs, finishing his drink in one long, irritated gulp before following her trail. He enters the private sanctuary of their suite, only to find her sitting squarely in the middle of the bed, her phone vibrating in her palm as a voice echoes through the speakers: "So... in this video, we're going to discuss the top ten marine disasters and how to escape them."

He aggressively rubs his head, his system completely buckling under her sudden hyper-fixation on maritime doom. "Yeh sab kya dekhna pad raha hai... Sanaz, agar hum doobe toh sabse pehle tumhe life boat pe bithaunga fir khud baithunga, theek hai? Ab chhoro yeh sab."

["What on earth am I being forced to watch... Sanaz, if we sink, I will put you on the lifeboat first, then I'll get on myself, okay? Now leave all this."]

She lets out a slow, thoroughly defeated sigh and locks her phone screen, cutting off the documentary. "Theek hai."

["Alright."]

"Kuch khaogi ya fir sone ka plan hai?" he asks, loosening the shoulders of his dark open coat.

["Are you going to eat something, or is the plan to just sleep?"]

She checks the luxury watch on her wrist. "Ek baj rahe hain. Kuch meetha khaa kar so jaate hain."

["It's one o'clock. Let's eat something sweet and then sleep."]

"Kya mangau?"

["What should I order?"]

"Hmm... strawberry milkshake."

He looks down at his highly sophisticated queen. "Seriously?"

"And dark chocolate cake."

He throws his hand up in a gesture of pure, helpless compliance and picks up the heavy room-service telephone receiver. He speaks into the line: "One dark chocolate cake slice, one strawberry milkshake... and one plain bottle of milk."

The room-service cart is wheeled in twenty minutes later. The layout is impeccably prepared: a rich, glossy slice of dark chocolate cake resting on a fine porcelain plate, a tall glass of thick, freshly made strawberry milkshake topped with a perfect glazed berry, and a cold, heavy glass bottle of plain milk.

Sanaz doesn't waste a single microsecond. She immediately pulls her legs up onto the white duvet, settling the plate on her lap. She slides the silver fork through the layers, taking a generous bite of the cake, and lets out an instant moan of pure satisfaction. "Mhm, this is so good." It's exactly what her brain needed-creamy, dense, not overly sweet, and authentic dark chocolate.

Hamza tracks the movement of her lips, his throat clearing roughly as he lets out a tight gulp. "Mujhe bhi do."

["Give me some too."]

"Khud ke liye nahi manga sakte the?!" she barks loudly. Yet, before he can even formulate a counter-argument, she aggressively thrusts the forkful of cake straight into his mouth.

["Couldn't you have ordered for yourself?!"]

He groans slightly as the cold metal prongs of the fork press a little too hard against his gums, but he chews and swallows the rich chocolate anyway, flashing her a sharp look. "Tum bilkul jaahil ho."

["You are completely uncivilized."]

Bypassing her glare, he reaches for his cold glass bottle, twisting the metal cap off with a sharp pop. He tilts his head back, his thick throat muscles working as he chugs the plain, chilled milk in long, continuous gulps.

Sanaz watches the display, her voice slightly muffled around another bite of cake. "Pehle sharab pii ab doodh pii rahe ho. Dimag theek hai?"

["First you drink alcohol and now you're drinking milk. Is your mind right?"]

"Body maintain karni padti hai, sirf mehnat se kaam nahi chalta," he rasps flatly, wiping a stray drop of white liquid from his thick mustache before tossing the empty bottle cleanly into the nearby dustbin.

["Body has to be maintained, hard work alone doesn't cut it."]

She nods thoughtfully. "Hmm, baat toh sahi hai."

["Hmm, that's true."]

Finishing the last crumbs of the dark chocolate cake, she sets the plate aside and grabs the heavy glass of the strawberry milkshake. Entirely abandoning the plastic straw, she tilts the glass back to catch the fresh berry at the rim with her teeth.

But her grip on the glass falters.

In a fraction of a second, the heavy cup slips from her fingers, tilting violently and crashing straight onto her chest. Sanaz gasps sharply as she catches the tumbling glass before it completely shatters against the bed.

The thick, pink, chilled strawberry cream runs everywhere, splashing across the delicate diamonds of her gold chest chain, pooling over her collarbones, and rapidly seeping down the l neckline of her fitted black dress.

The cold liquid drips down her skin in slow, heavy trails, tracing the exact contours of her chest.

She lets out a low irritated groan, setting the remaining glass aside with a sharp click before desperately grabbing a handful of tissues to dab at her neck. "Sab barbaad ho gaya," she mutters, "Meri madad karo!"

["Everything is ruined. Help me!"]

Hamza doesn't say a word. Without breaking eye contact, his large fingers wrap around hers, gently but firmly tossing the crumpled tissues away onto the nightstand.

"Agar main madad karunga toh kuch bhi zaya nahi hone dunga," he rasps.

["If I help, I won't let anything go to waste."]

Sanaz freezes, her eyes widening as she stares up at him. "Hamza..." she mutters, her throat tightening as she feels the room's temperature shift past the point of no return.

His palm slips behind her head, his fingers tangling near the base of her loose bun. His other hand finds the hidden metal tracks of the zipper at the back of her black mermaid dress.

Trying to break the suffocating tension, she gulps, a wicked little smirk flashing across her face as she whispers, "So you want the milk direct from the source, huh?"

"Never thought of it," he replies as he leans down, his chest pressing flush against her shoulders. "But if you're approving..."

He doesn't give her a microsecond to respond. Hamza leans down, pressing his warm lips directly against the sensitive curve of her neck. Sanaz gasps as his tongue drags slowly upward, tracing the chilling trail of the strawberry cream all the way up her jawline before his mouth shifts, ruthlessly claiming her lips in a deep, possessive kiss.

A quiet whimper escapes her throat and she closes her eyes, completely accepting the weight of his mouth as she tilts her head back against his arm. Hamza slides the zipper further down her spine.

He tears his mouth away from her lips, trailing a line of burning kisses down her throat to suck aggressively at her collarbones. His tongue cleaning the sweet, pink cream from her upper chest, running slowly along the faint, pale stretch marks tracing the soft curves of her skin.

The stark contrast between the freezing, air-conditioned temperature of the VVIP cabin and the searing heat of his wet tongue isn't helping her. Sanaz grips the fabric of his dark coat, her chest heaving as a sharp, electric wave of heat shoots straight down to her groin. Beneath the heavy fabric of the dress, her nipples crest into hard, sensitive points.

Hamza suddenly pulls away just an inch, his heavy breathing ghosting over her damp skin. His large hand slides down, settling firmly under the curve of her chest to lift her weight closer to his gaze. "Look at that. Seems like you're liking it," he murmurs.

A burning crimson flush hits her cheeks, "So what?"

Hamza's jaw hitches, "So, I'm going to continue."

He pulls the heavy fabric down further and she doesn't make a single movement to stop him.

"Do you want to continue?" he asks.

"Yes," she answers without a single trace of hesitation.

The metal zipper is fully opened down her lower back. The midnight-black dress falls away from her upper body, pooling tightly around her hips and exposing her breasts entirely to the warm cabin light.

Hamza just looks for a few seconds, his eyes turning incredibly dark as the chest chain glints and catches the light against the soft texture of her skin. Her perky nipples are taut and sensitive against the cool, air-conditioned room. Sanaz looks up at his towering frame, her breathing uneven, a rare, slightly embarrassed flush hitting her cheeks.

He leans in immediately, his massive hands incredibly gentle as he unfastens the delicate jewelry, taking off the diamond chest chain and placing it aside on the glass table. "Sabse haseen," he whispers directly into her skin, his large palms trailing up and down her waist to firmly anchor her small frame against him.

["Most beautiful."]

She lets out a deep, shaky breath she'd been holding onto. "Hamza... Aage badho."

["Hamza... Move forward."]

He nods. Cupping the heavy weight of her breast in his palm, his rough thumb rolls over the peak, testing the hard texture of her nipple.

Sanaz closes her eyes tightly, her breath hitching sharply in her throat. He leans closer, running his wet, warm tongue over the sensitive peak before drawing her fully into his mouth, sucking aggressively.

She lets out a broken moan, her fingers tangling tightly in his long hair to pull him closer, every single protocol and tactical calculation completely forgotten. Her heart is beating so loudly it echoes in her head; the sheer sensory overload is that intense.

"Meri milkshake gir gayi aur... tum mera fayeda utha rahe ho," she gasps out between her shallow breaths. ["My milkshake spilled and... you're taking advantage of me."]

"Fayeda hum dono ka ho raha hai," he replies against her skin, giving a sharp, sudden nip to her nipple.

["Both of us are benefiting from this."]

She moans sharply, a tiny, breathless giggle escaping her lips at his blunt argument. He gives her weight a light, possessive squeeze, his mouth moving relentlessly as he kisses, licks, and claims every single inch of her chest.

He lays her flat against the plush duvet, smoothly sliding the black mermaid dress completely off her legs and tossing it onto the floorboards. Sanaz rubs her thighs together in a sudden wave of nervousness as his frame slides right on top of her, trapping her beneath him. Reaching up, he gently unclips her hair, spreading the dark locks across the pillow so the plastic teeth won't hurt her.

He leans up on his forearms, looking down at the beautiful, chaotic mess beneath him. The thin, sticky trail of the pink liquid travels down her midriff, disappearing right into the waistband of her drenched underwear-the fabric completely soaked with a mixture of her own slick wetness and the sweet, melted cream.

He teases and loves her breasts for a long time, his mouth and fingers working in a relentless, possessive rhythm until the peaks are sore, flushed, and highly sensitive to the cool air. When she finally groans and pushes at his massive shoulders, he obeys the resistance, sliding his lips down the damp path of her midriff to the soft expanse of her lower stomach.

His large hands hook into the elastic of her drenched panties, slowly sliding them down her legs. The fabric is heavily weighted, her slick, sweet arousal still clinging to it.

Sanaz grimaces instantly at the explicit sight of the damp lace, but Hamza gently pats the inner curve of her thigh, grounding her. "Sharmao matt, I'm not judging."

["Don't be shy, I'm not judging."]

A dangerous glint enters his green eyes as he looks up at her face. "Though I'll definitely tease... you're leaking like a waterfall."

Sanaz's chest heaves, her fingers tightening into the mattress as she fires back. "Khud ko zyada hoshiyar matt samjho. Jab meri baari aayegi toh mere neeche hoge tum."

["Don't think too highly of yourself. When my turn comes, you'll be beneath me."]

"I'd like that," he chuckles darkly

He subtly parts her thighs, leaning in to press burning kisses and sharp, possessive nips against the plush skin of her thick inner thighs. To a man who has spent his life navigating the cold, brutal wilderness of tactical warfare, this is the warmest place he has ever felt. He pauses, looking directly up at her, raising his dark eyebrows in a silent, respectful query.

Sanaz gives a single, heavy nod, letting her head drop back completely against the pillows as she surrenders her final defenses.

His warm tongue darts out, sliding smoothly up the aching seam of her center. Sanaz's hands fly out, clutching the bedsheets in a white-knuckled grip as he dives deeper, his tongue unerringly finding her clitoris and working against it in a steady pressure.

"How did you find..." she gasps out, her mind failing to compute his accuracy.

"Magic," he whispers against her wet skin, the rough, prickly bite of his mustache and thick beard frictioning against her hyper-sensitive flesh and making her knees go completely weak.

"I thought... men were dumb."

"They are."

He hooks his large hands beneath her thighs, spreading them wider and lifting them high onto his broad shoulders. Sanaz lets out a sharp yelp, completely overwhelmed by the raw, exposing geometry, and hides her burning face behind both her hands.

It makes no sense to her-the man was practically blushing and shy when looking at her cleavage , but now he is resting between her legs without a single shred of shame. How?

Hamza parts the lips with two thick fingers, his tongue sweeping upward from the sensitive entrance all the way to the top.

She bites her lower lip hard to contain herself, but loud, breathless moans escape her throat anyway. Her control completely fractures; her hips begin to lift instinctively against his face, seeking the friction as his sharp nose grinds directly against the tiny, swollen bud of her pleasure.

His wet lips nip gently at the plush flesh, his tongue working in deep, continuous strokes as her slick, warm juices run down his jaw and glaze his dark beard.

"Hamza.. main.." she tries to warn him, her voice breaking into a ragged cry. Her thighs quiver violently on his shoulders, clenching around nothing but the air of the cabin.

["Hamza.. I.."]

But the words dissolve into a succession of high, desperate whines that escape her throat as she cums, her body clamping down around his tongue as her toes curl hard into the sheets. Damn. She is entirely consumed by the fire.

He laps his tongue one final time, unhurriedly drinking the complex, sweet and salty mixture of her climax.

Sanaz looks down at him through the dim lighting of the suite, hereyes visibly teary from the overwhelming intensity of the physical release. Every single defense mechanism has been entirely stripped away. But as her vision clears, she tracks his features and realizes the most unexpected data point of the evening-the fact that the fearsome, 6'2" Sher-E-Baloch is practically teary-eyed himself.

"Hamza...?" she calls him softly.

He looks up from between her knees, his green eyes shining with liquid that he has never shown to another living soul. "Seherzadi... mujhe laga nahi tha main kisi ke saamne aise toot jaunga."

["Princess... I didn't think I would break down like this in front of anyone."]

She slowly pulls herself up from the flat expanse of the mattress, bringing her trembling legs down from his shoulders and sliding over to lie directly beside him on the plush white duvet. She wraps her arms around his massive frame, pulling his weight into her space.

"Toot jao," she murmurs. "Main aapke saare hisse apne paas rakhungi."

["Break apart. I will keep all your pieces safe with me."]

A soft, genuinely beautiful smile breaks through Hamza's rough mustache. He leans over, pulling her small frame impossibly closer into his chest as he seals his lips against hers. Sanaz instantly tastes the sharp, sweet tang of her own slick arousal on his tongue, but for the first time in her hyper-sanitized, medical life, she doesn't mind the chaos of it.

He lets out a long sigh against her lips, his fingers tracing the delicate outline of her bare waist. "Mujhe yahan se wapas nahi jana," he rasps lowly. "Yahin rehna hai, tumhare saath. Pehli baar main kisi cheez ke itna kareeb gaya hoon."

["I don't want to go back from here. I want to stay right here, with you. This is the first time I've ever gotten this close to something."]

His lips and her center. To a man who has known nothing but high-caliber rifles, cold steel, and state-sanctioned executions, the soft, bleeding warmth of her body is something he treats as a sacred sanctuary.

He shifts slightly, his eyes searching hers through the dark. "Tumhe achcha laga?" he questions softly. ["Did you like it?"]

Sanaz nods her head instantly against his shoulder, a soft, content breath escaping her lips. "Bilkul..." a familiar, playful spark enters her eyes, "warna main... khotta."

["Absolutely... otherwise I... you donkey."]

Hamza lets out a sudden, rough chuckle, hr squeezes her waist tightly, burying his face back into the crook of her neck as the cruise liner carries them deeper into the silent blackness of the ocean.

"Come on, let's clean up."

He doesn't wait. Hamza shifts his frame, hooks one forearm beneath the bend of her knees, and lifts her small body cleanly off the mattress. He carries her straight into the marble-paneled bathroom.

Settling her gently into the deep porcelain basin of the bathtub, he bends down, twisting the sleek chrome faucet until a stream of perfectly warm, soothing water begins to run over her skin. He stays firmly outside the edge of the tub, his dark trousers casting a heavy shadow against the white tile as his hands guide the water to rinse away the sticky traces of pink cream and the slick fluids of their release.

Sanaz sits quietly against the porcelain, her breathing finally slowing down. As he leans closer to adjust the water pressure, her hand lifts.

Her fingers trail slowly upward, tracing the sharp line of his cheekbone before settling into the thick, dark landscape of his beard, where the dried traces of her own juices still glaze the coarse hair.

Her hand wanders lower, her fingernail catching and slightly digging into the dense, scarred muscle of his exposed chest, tracing right past the platinum chains resting against his collarbone.

Hamza pauses, his eyes cutting up from the water to lock onto her face. His thick eyebrows rise in a silent query.

"Aise kyun dekh rahi ho?" he questions. ["Why are you looking at me like that?"]

Sanaz shifts under the weight of his gaze, her eyes darting away toward the steam-fogged glass.

"Kuch nahi..." she mutters softly, her fingers tightening slightly against the dense muscle of his shoulder. "Tumhe chahati hoon."

["It's nothing... I want you."]

Hamza doesn't let her retreat behind her walls. His damp hand comes up, his thick fingers gently catching the line of her jaw to smoothly turn her face back toward his space, forcing her to confront the liquid clarity in his eyes.

"Main bhi chahata hoon," he rasps, a faint trace of boyish warmth softening his hardened features as he runs his thumb over her lip. "Lekin aaj nahi. Tum thhak gayi ho. Aur main jaldbazi nahi karna chahata."

["I want you too. But not today. You're tired. And I don't want to rush this."]

He refuses to treat her body like a rushed physical chore.

Sanaz gives a nod, accepting his logic.

After ensuring she is perfectly fresh, clean, and dry, they navigate out of the marble sanctuary back into the bedroom. The luxury retail tags are entirely forgotten now; Sanaz slides into a simple, light cotton nightdress that smells faintly of summer, while Hamza steps out of his sharp coat for simple, dark sweatpants.

They crawl back onto the plush white duvet. Hamza slides his frame right beside hers, his long arms instantly wrapping completely around her frame to pull her flush against his broad chest.

Sanaz buries her face directly into his collarbone, her fingers anchoring tightly into the fabric of his sweatpants as if her subconscious is still tracking his presence in the dark. He rests his heavy chin against her head, his breathing slow against HER LOOSE LOCKS.

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You honestly didn't know how you ended up like this,

It was supposed to be a short trip to your boyfriends study to force him into your shared bedroom because you were having a hard time falling asleep, but few minutes later you are now sitting on his lap cock warming him, head thrown back on his shoulder while he pays you no mind and continues signing off deals.

For some reason Hamza, your usually compliant boyfriend who has never denied your pleasure had decided today was the perfect day to teach you patience. So here you were perched upon his lap sitting on his lenght trying hard to behave. While his hand holds your hip incase you moved even a inch.

You whine bucking your hips for some friction his hand on your hip just tightens in a warning making you pause.

"Sabr karo meri jaan". His low voice makes you gulp you tried to stay still really you did but fuck you were getting needy with every passing secound. You shifted slightly under the guise of trying to get comfortable, Hamza saw right through your act but chose to ignore it for now.

The clock ticks as your patience grows thiner and thiner every secound. His left hands travel under your sleep shirt his kurta hands explore the soft skin of your stomach drawing sensual circles with his thumb. Hamza leans forward to look at the paper the impact make you clench, you let out a breathy moan, dissolving his resolve, he shoves the papers aside and positions you to bend over the table.

His hand comes up to wrap around your neck, squeezing lightly to let you know whos in control. The pressure makes you light headed, you pull weakly at his arm he just chuckles at your struggle. Another hand spanks your bottom in a warning making you yelp.

"Hilna band karo jaan warna mai ruk jaunga." The threat makes you pause as you quietly comply and stop struggling, his grip on your neck loosens, you feel his breath against you as he laid open mouth kisses on your nape occasionally bitting and sucking the tender skin.

God he was really taking his time getting worshiping you, getting you all worked up as you writhe and moan uselessly. His hard cock stays still in your wram heat not moving an inch. Tears of frustration gather in your eyes.

"Hamza please." Your voice a needy broken whisper breaks him out of the trance, he takes notice of the tears and wipes them immediately. No this wont work he cant have his jaan crying now can he. His hips get to work thrusting slowly against your fold as more slick drips out of you making him groan. You clench involuntarily, moans getting louder and louder embarrassing you. You cover your mouth with your hand but he interjects immediately grabbing your hand and holding it behind your back.

"Apni pyari aawazin mujhse mat chhupao jaan." His thrusts get more faster and deeper hitting that spot inside you which always made you see stars. Your release was getting closer he could feel it he leaned forward capturing your lush lips with his swallowing your moans as you cum. It was too much every touch sent a electric buzz on your skin it was as if you both had become one. You pant after your release but Hamza still didn't stop entirely, still thrusting slowly inside you making you twitch with overstimulation, you whine as you feel him release inside you. He pulls out slowly not wanting to stimulate you even more. You wrapped your arms around him as he carried you to the bathroom room to clean you up whispering sweet nothings in your ear.

Later you both lay in bed snuggling each other as sleep finally visits you in the arms of you beloved.

Hope yall like it.

....Anyways i should shut up now someone take away the mic. Lwk really short ik ik but-but its progress okk☝️

Tagging: @gulaabjamun08 @mujhekoimarsbhejdo @rutvii @mainyahaankyunhoon @gehra-hua @idonthavechatpateusernamed @filmy-totoro @goodasaysboo @malekathesimp68 @sunf1over

Idk who else wants to read smut.

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